THE  DESERT 

AND  THE  SOWN 


MARY   HALLOCK  FOOTE 


BLAKE 

Circulating  Library 

276  E.  57TH  STREET 
CHICAGO,  ILL. 


Volume 


*a 

r.     •"•"At  <j 

"ftfrv, 

Cf>^ 


*, 


UCSB  LIBRARY 


$* 

/->.      G/ , 


'*. 


v  •*/ 

s-i 
/*• 


fl.  B,  BUXE  &  SO  MS, 
Circulating  Library, 

276  E.  57th  St.,      Chirr, 


bp  ^ttarp  £>allock  Jootc 


THE  DESERT   AND  THE   SOWN.       i2mo,$i.so. 

THE  PRODIGAL.  Illustrated  by  the  Author.  Square 
crown  8vo,  $1.25. 

THE  CHOSEN  VALLEY.  i6mo,  $1.25;  paper,  50 
cents. 

THE  LED-HORSECLAIM.  Illustrated.  i6mo,$i2s- 

JOHN   BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY.     i6mo,  $1.25. 

THE  LAST  ASSEMBLY  BALL,  and  THE  FATE 
OF  A  VOICE.  i6mo,  $1.25. 

IN  EXILE,  AND  OTHER  STORIES.     :6mo,  $1.25. 

CCEUR  D'ALENE.     A  Novel.     i6mo,  $1.25. 

THE  CUP  OF  TREMBLING,  AND  OTHER  STO 
RIES.  i6mo,  $1.25. 

THE  LITTLE  FIG-TREE  STORIES.  With  two  il 
lustrations  by  MRS.  FOOTE,  and  a  colored  Cover 
Design.  Square  12010,  $1.00. 

HOUGHTON,   MIFFLIN  &  CO. 
BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK. 


The  Desert  and 
The  Sown 


BY 


MARY  HALLOCK  FOOTE 


BOSTON    AND    NEW   YORK 

HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY 

dbr  fiitacwibe  preatf,  CambciD0e 
1902 


COPYRIGHT,  1902,  BY  MARY  HALLOCK  FOOTE 
ALL   RIGHTS    RESERVED 


Published  May,  7902 


M.  B.  BLAKE  &  SONS, 
Circulating  Library, 


CHAPTER  PAOK 

I.  A  COUNCIL  OF  THE  ELDEBS         ....  1 

II.  INTRODUCING  A  SON-IN-LAW     ....  13 

III.  THE  INITIAL  LOVE 19 

IV.  "  A  MAN  THAT  HAD  A  WELL  IN  HIS  OWN  COURT  "  31 

V.   DISINHERITED 49 

VI.  AN  APPEAL  TO  NATURE 63 

VII.  MARKING  TIME 69 

VIII.   A  HUNTER'S  DIARY 80 

IX.  THE  POWER  OF  WEAKNESS      ....  90 

X.  THE  WHITE  PERIL 96 

XI.  A  SEARCHING  OF  HEARTS        ....  105 

XH.   THE  BLOOD- WITB 121 

XDI.  CURTAIN 133 

XIV.   KIND  INQUIRIES 141 

XV.  A  BRIDEGROOM  OF  SNOW         ....  159 

XVI.  THE  NATURE  OF  AN  OATH  .....  171 

XVII.   THE  HIDDEN  TRAIL 188 

XVIII.   THE  STAB  IN  THE  EAST 197 

XIX.  PILGRIMS  AND  STRANGERS         ....  203 

XX.   A  STATION  IN  THE  DESERT          ....  218 

XXL  INJURIOUS  REPORTS  CONCERNING  AN  OLD  HOUSE  231 

XXII.  THE  CASE  STRIKES  IN 253 

XXIII.  RESTIVENESS 263 

XXIV.  INDIAN  SUMMER 273 

XXV.  THB  FELL  FROST 288 

XXVI.  PEACE  TO  THIS  HOUSE  297 


M.  B,  BLAKE  &  SONS, 

Circulating  Library, 

275  E,  57th  St.,     Chi. 


THE  DESERT  AND  THE  SOWN 


A  COUNCIL  OF  THE  ELDERS 

IT  was  an  evening  of  sudden  mildness  following 
a  dry  October  gale.  The  colonel  had  miscal 
culated  the  temperature  by  one  log  —  only  one,  he 
declared,  but  that  had  proved  a  pitchy  one,  and  the 
chimney  bellowed  with  flame.  From  end  to  end 
the  room  was  alight  with  it,  as  if  the  stored-up  ener 
gies  of  a  whole  pine-tree  had  been  sacrificed  in  the 
consumption  of  that  four-foot  stick. 

The  young  persons  of  the  house  had  escaped, 
laughing,  into  the  fresh  night  air,  but  the  colonel 
was  hemmed  in  on  every  side ;  deserted  by  his 
daughter,  mocked  by  the  work  of  his  own  hands, 
and  torn  between  the  duties  of  a  host  and  the  host's 
helpless  craving  for  his  after-dinner  cigar. 

Across  the  hearth,  filling  with  her  silks  all  the 
visible  room  in  his  own  favorite  settle  corner,  sat 
1 


THE   DESERT  AND  THE   SOWN 

the  one  woman  on  earth  it  most  behooved  him  to 
be  civil  to,  —  the  future  mother-in-law  of  his  only 
child.  That  Moya  was  a  willing,  nay,  a  reckless 
hostage,  did  not  lessen  her  father's  awe  of  the 
situation. 

Mrs.  Bogardus,  according  to  her  wont  at  this 
hour,  was  composedly  doing  nothing.  The  colonel 
could  not  make  his  retreat  under  cover  of  her  real 
or  feigned  absorption  in  any  of  the  small  scattering 
pursuits  which  distract  the  female  mind.  When 
she  read  she  read  —  she  never  "  looked  at  books." 
When  she  sewed  she  sewed  —  presumably,  but  no 
one  ever  saw  her  do  it.  Her  mind  was  economic 
and  practical,  and  she  saved  it  whole,  like  many 
men  of  force,  for  whatever  she  deemed  her  best 
paying  sphere  of  action. 

It  was  a  silence  that  crackled  with  heat !  The 
colonel,  wrathfully  perspiring  in  the  glow  of  that 
impenitent  stick,  frowned  at  it  like  an  inquisitor. 
Presently  Mrs.  Bogardus  looked  up,  and  her  ex 
pression  softened  as  she  saw  the  energetic  despair 
upon  his  face. 

"  Colonel,  don't  you  always  smoke  after  din 
ner?" 

"  That  is  my  bad  habit,  madam.  I  belong  to 
the  generation  that  smokes  —  after  dinner  and 
2 


A   COUNCIL   OF  THE   ELDERS 

most  other  times  —  more  than  is  good  for  us." 
Colonel  Middleton  belonged  also  to  the  generation 
that  can  carry  a  sentence  through  to  the  finish  in 
handsome  style,  and  he  did  it  with  a  suave  Virgin 
ian  accent  as  easy  as  his  seat  in  the  saddle.  Mrs. 
Bogardus  always  gave  him  her  respectful  attention 
during  his  best  performances,  though  she  was  a 
woman  of  short  sentences  herself. 

"  Don't  you  smoke  in  this  room  sometimes  ?  " 
she  asked,  with  a  barely  perceptible  sniff  the  merest 
contraction  of  her  housewifely  nostrils. 

"  Ah  -  h !  Those  rascally  curtains  and  cushions ! 
You  ladies  —  women,  I  should  say  —  Moya  won't 
let  me  say  ladies  —  you  bolster  us  up  with  comforts 
on  purpose  to  betray  us  !  " 

"  You  can  say  '  ladies '  to  me,"  smiled  the  very 
handsome  one  before  him.  "  That 's  the  generation 
/  belong  to." 

The  colonel  bowed  playfully.  "  Well,  you 
know,  I  don't  detect  myself,  but  there 's  no  doubt 
I  have  infected  the  premises." 

"  Open  fires  are  good  ventilators.  I  wish  you 
would  smoke  now.  If  you  don't,  I  shall  have  to 
go  away,  and  I  'm  exceedingly  comfortable." 

"  You  are  exceedingly  charming  to  say  so  —  on 
top  of  that  last  stick,  too ! "  The  colonel  had  Irish 
3 


THE   DESERT  AND   THE   SOWN 

as  well  as  Virginian  progenitors.  "  Well,"  he 
sighed,  proceeding  to  make  himself  conditionally 
happy,  "  Moya  will  never  forgive  me  !  We  spoil 
each  other  shamefully  when  we  're  alone,  but  of 
course  we  try  to  jack  each  other  up  when  company 
comes.  It 's  a  great  comfort  to  have  some  one  to 
spoil,  is  n't  it,  now  ?  I  need  n't  ask  which  it  is  in 
your  family  !  " 

"  The  spoiled  one  ? "  Mrs.  Bogardus  smiled 
rather  coldly.  "  A  woman  we  had  for  governess, 
when  Christine  was  a  little  thing,  used  to  say  : 
'  That  child  is  the  stuff  that  tyrants  are  made  of ! ' 
Tyrants  are  made  by  the  will  of  their  subjects,  don't 
you  think,  generally  speaking  ?  " 

"  Well,  you  could  n't  have  made  a  tyrant  of  your 
son,  Mrs.  Bogardus.  He 's  the  Universal  Spoiler ! 
He  '11  ruin  my  striker,  Jephson.  I  shall  have  to 
send  the  fellow  back  to  the  ranks.  I  don't  know 
how  you  keep  a  servant  good  for  anjthing  with 
Paul  around." 

"  Paul  thinks  he  does  n't  like  to  be  waited  on,'' 
Paul's  mother  observed  shrewdly.  "  He  says  that 
only  invalids,  old  people,  and  children  have  any 
claim  on  the  personal  service  of  others." 

"  By  George !  I  found  him  blacking  his  own 
boots !  " 

4 


A  COUNCIL   OF  THE   ELDERS 

Mrs.  Bogardus  laughed. 

"  But  I  'in  paying  a  man  to  do  it  for  him.  It 
upsets  my  contract  with  that  other  fellow  for  Paul 
to  do  his  work.  We  have  a  claim  on  what  we  pay 
for  in  this  world." 

"  I  suppose  we  have.  But  Paul  thinks  that 
nothing  can  pay  the  price  of  those  artificial  rela 
tions  between  man  and  man.  I  think  that 's  the 
way  he  puts  it." 

"  Good  Heavens  !  Has  the  boy  read  history  ? 
It 's  a  relation  that  began  when  the  world  was 
made,  and  will  last  while  men  are  in  it." 

"  I  am  not  defending  Paul's  ideas,  Colonel.  I 
have  a  great  sympathy  with  tyrants  myself.  You 
must  talk  to  him.  He  will  amuse  you." 

"  My  word  !  It 's  a  ticklish  kind  of  amusement 
when  we  get  talking.  Why,  the  boy  wants  to 
turn  the  poor  old  world  upside  down  —  make  us 
all  stand  on  our  heads  to  give  our  feet  a  rest. 
Now,  I  respect  my  feet,"  —  the  colonel  drew  them 
in  a  little  as  the  lady's  eyes  involuntarily  took  the 
dii'ection  of  his  allusion,  —  "I  take  the  best  care 
I  can  of  them  ;  but  I  propose  to  keep  my  head, 
such  as  it  is,  on  top,  till  I  go  under  altogether. 
These  young  philanthropists  !  They  assume  that 
the  Hands  and  the  Feet  of  the  world,  the  class 
5 


THE   DESERT  AND  THE   SOWN 

that  serves  in  that  capacity,  have  got  the  same 
nerves  as  the  Brain." 

"  There  's  a  sort  of  connection,"  said  Mrs.  Bo- 
gardus  carelessly.  "  Some  of  our  Heads  have 
come  from  the  class  that  you  call  the  Hands  and 
Feet,  have  n't  they  ?  " 

The  colonel  admitted  the  fact,  but  the  fact 
was  the  exception.  "  Why,  that 's  just  the  matter 
with  us  now !  We  've  got  no  class  of  legislators. 
I  don't  wish  to  plume  myself,  but,  upon  my  word, 
the  two  services  are  about  all  we  have  left  to  show 
what  selection  and  training  can  do.  And  we  're 
only  just  getting  the  army  into  shape,  after  the 
raw  material  that  was  dumped  into  it  by  the  civil 
war." 

"  Were  n't  you  in  the  civil  war  yourself  ?  " 

"  I  was  —  a  West  Pointer,  madam  ;  and  I  was 
true  to  my  salt  and  false  to  my  blood.  But,  the 
flag  over  all !  —  at  the  cost  of  everything  I  held  dear 
on  earth."  After  this  speech  the  colonel  looked 
hotter  than  ever  and  a  trifle  ashamed  of  himself. 

Mrs.  Bogardus's  face  wore  its  most  unobservant 
expression.  "  1  don't  agree  with  Paul,"  she  said. 
"  I  wish  in  some  ways  he  were  more  like  other 
young  men  —  exercise,  for  instance.  It 's  a  pity 
for  young  men  not  to  love  activity  and  leadership. 
6 


A   COUNCIL  OF  THE   ELDERS 

Besides,  it 's  the  fashion.  A  young1  man  might  as 
well  be  out  of  the  world  as  out  of  the  fashion. 
Blood  is  a  strange  thing,"  she  mused. 

The  colonel  looked  at  her  curiously.  In  a  wo 
man  so  unfrank,  her  occasional  bursts  of  frankness 
were  surprising  and,  as  he  thought,  not  altogether 
complimentary.  It  was  as  if  she  felt  herself  so 
far  removed  from  his  conception  of  her  that  she 
might  say  anything  she  pleased,  sure  of  his  mis 
comprehension. 

"  He  is  not  lazy  intellectually,"  said  the  colonel, 
aiming  to  comfort  her. 

"  I  did  not  say  he  was  lazy  —  only  he  won't  do 
things  except  to  what  he  calls  some  '  purpose.'  At 
his  age  amusement  ought  to  be  purpose  enough. 
He  ought  to  take  his  pleasures  seriously  —  this 
hunting-trip,  for  instance.  I  believe,  on  the  very 
least  encouragement,  he  would  give  it  all  up  !" 

"  You  must  n't  let  him  do  that,"  said  the  colo 
nel,  warming.  "  All  that  country  above  Yankee 
Fork,  for  a  hundred  miles,  after  you  've  gone  fifty 
north  from  Bonanza,  is  practically  virgin  forest. 
Wonderful  flora  and  fauna !  It 's  late  for  the 
weeds  and  things,  but  if  Paul  wants  game  trophies 
for  your  country-house,  he  can  load  a  pack-train." 

Mrs.  Bogardus  continued  to  be  amused,  in  a 
7 


THE   DESERT   AND   THE   SOWN 

quiet  way.  "  He  calls  them  relics  of  barbarism ! 
He  would  as  soon  festoon  his  walls  with  scalps,  as 
decorate  them  with  the  heads  of  beautiful  animals, 
—  nearer  the  Creator's  design  than  most  men,  he 
would  say." 

"  He  's  right  there  !  But  that  does  n't  change 
the  distinction  between  men  and  animals.  He  is 
your  son,  madam  —  and  he  's  going  to  be  mine. 
But,  fine  boy  as  he  is,  I  call  him  a  crank  of  the 
first  water." 

"  You  '11  find  him  quite  good  to  Moya,"  Mrs. 
Bogardus  remarked  dispassionately.  "  And  he  's 
not  quite  twenty-four." 

"  Very  true.  Well,  /  should  send  him  into  the 
woods  for  the  sake  of  getting  a  little  sense  into 
him,  of  an  every-day  sort.  He  '11  take  in  sanity 
with  every  breath." 

"  And  you  don't  think  it 's  too  late  in  the  season 
for  them  to  go  out  ?  " 

There  was  no  change  in  Mrs.  Bogardus's  voice, 
unconcerned  as  it  was  ;  yet  the  colonel  felt  at  once 
that  this  simple  question  lay  at  the  root  of  all  her 
previous  skirmishing. 

"  The  guide  will  decide  as  to  that,"  he  said  de 
finitely.     "  If  it  is,  he  won't  go  out  with  them. 
They  have  got  a  good  man,  you  say  ?  " 
8 


A  COUNCIL  OF  THE   ELDERS 

"  They  are  waiting  for  a  good  man  ;  they  have 
waited  too  long,  I  think.  He  is  expected  in  with 
another  party  on  Monday,  perhaps.  Paul  is  to 
meet  the  Bowens  at  Challis,  where  they  buy  their 
outfit.  I  do  believe"  •  —  she  laughed  constrainedly 
—  "  that  he  is  going  up  there  more  to  head  them 
off  than  for  any  other  reason." 

"  How  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Oh,  it 's  very  stupid  of  them !  They  seem 
to  think  an  army  post  is  part  of  the  public  do 
main.  They  have  been  threatening,  if  Paul  gives 
up  the  trip,  to  come  down  here  on  a  gratuitous 
visit." 

"  Why,  let  them  come  by  all  means  !  The  more 
the  merrier  !  We  will  quarter  them  on  the  garri 
son  at  large." 

"  Wherever  they  were  quartered,  they  would  be 
here  all  the  time.  They  are  not  intimate  friends  of 
Paul's.  Mrs.  Bowen  is  —  a  very  great  friend. 
He  is  her  right-hand  in  all  that  Hartley  House 
work.  The  boys  are  just  fashionable  young  men." 

"  Can't  they  go  hunting  without  Paul  ?  " 

"  Wheels  within  wheels!  "  Mrs.  Bogardus  sighed 

impatiently.     "  Hunting  trips  are  expensive,  and 

—  when  young  men  are  living  on  their  fathers,  it 

is  convenient  sometimes  to  have  a  third.    However, 

9 


THE  DESERT   AND   THE   SOWN 

Paul  goes,  I  half  believe,  to  prevent  their  making 
a  descent  upon  us  here." 

"  Well ;  I  should  ask  them  to  come,  or  make  it 
plain  they  were  not  expected." 

"  Oh,  would  you  ?  —  if  their  mother  was  one 
of  the  nicest  women,  and  your  friend  ?  Besides, 
the  reservation  does  not  cover  the  whole  valley. 
Banks  Bowen  talks  of  a  mine  he  wants  to  look 
at  —  I  don't  think  it  will  make  much  difference 
to  the  mine !  This  is  simply  to  say  that  I  wish 
Paul  cared  more  about  the  trip  for  its  own 
sake." 

"  Well,  frankly,  I  think  he  's  better  out  of  the 
way  for  the  next  fortnight.  The  girls  ought  to  go 
to  bed  early,  and  keep  the  roses  in  their  cheeks  for 
the  wedding.  Moya's  head  is  full  of  her  frocks 
and  fripperies.  She  is  trying  to  run  a  brace  of 
sewing  women ;  and  all  those  boxes  are  coming 
from  the  East  to  be  '  inspected,  and  condemned  * 
mostly.  The  child  seems  to  make  a  great  many 
mistakes,  does  n't  she  ?  About  every  other  day  I 
see  a  box  as  big  as  a  coffin  in  the  hall,  addressed  to 
some  dry-goods  house,  '  returned  by ' 

"  Moya  should  have  sent  to  me  for  her  things," 
said  Mrs.  Bogardus.  "  I  am  the  one  who  makes 
her  return  them.  She  can  do  much  better  when 
10 


A  COUNCIL  OF  THE   ELDERS 

she  is  in  town  herself.  It  does  n't  matter,  for  the 
few  weeks  they  will  be  away,  what  she  wears.  I 
shall  take  her  measures  home  with  me  and  set  the 
people  to  work.  She  has  never  been  fitted  in  her 
life." 

The  colonel  looked  rather  aghast.  He  had  sel 
dom  heard  Mrs.  Bogardus  speak  with  so  much  ani 
mation.  He  wondered  if  really  his  household  was 
so  very  far  behind  the  times. 

"  It 's  very  kind  of  you,  I  'm  sure,  if  Moya  will 
let  you.  Most  girls  think  they  can  manage  these 
matters  for  themselves." 

"  It 's  impossible  to  shop  by  mail,"  Mrs.  Bogar 
dus  said  decidedly.  "  They  always  keep  a  certain 
style  of  things  for  the  Western  and  Southern 
trade." 

The  colonel  was  crushed.  Mrs.  Bogardus  rose, 
and  he  picked  up  her  handkerchief,  breathing  a 
little  hard  after  the  exertion.  She  passed  out, 
thanking  him  with  a  smile  as  he  opened  the  door. 
In  the  hall  she  stopped  to  choose  a  wrap  from  a 
collection  of  unconventional  garments  hanging  on 
a  rack  of  moose  horns. 

"  I  think  I  shall  go  out,"  she  said.  "  The  air  is 
quite  soft  to-night.  Do  you  know  which  way  the 
children  went  ?  "  By  the  "  children,"  as  the  colonel 
11 


THE   DESERT  AND  THE   SOWN 

had   noted,    Mrs.     Bogardus    usually   meant    her 
daughter,  the  budding  tyrant,  Christine. 

"  Fine  woman  !  "  he  mused,  alone  with  himself 
in  his  study.  "  Splendid  character  head.  Regu 
lar  Dutch  beauty.  But  hard  —  eh  ?  —  a  trifle  hard 
in  the  grain.  Eyes  that  tell  you  nothing.  Mouth 
set  like  a  stone.  Never  rambles  in  her  talk.  Never 
speculates  or  exaggerates  for  fun.  Never  runs 
into  hyperbole  —  the  more  fool  some  other  folks  ! 
Speaks  to  the  point  or  keeps  still." 


12 


II 

INTRODUCING  A  SON-IN-LAW 

THE  colonel's  papers  failed  to  hold  him  some 
how.  He  rose  and  paced  the  room  with  his 
short,  stiff-kneed  tread.  He  stopped  and  stared 
into  the  fire ;  his  face  began  to  get  red. 

"  So !  Moya's  clothes  are  not  good  enough.  Go 
ing  to  set  the  people  to  work,  is  she?  Wants  an 
outfit  worthy  of  her  son.  And  who  's  to  pay  for  it, 
by  gad?  Post-nuptial  bills  for  wedding  finery 
are  going  to  hurt  poor  little  Moya  like  the  deuce. 
Confound  the  woman  !  Dressing  my  daughter  for 
me,  right  in  my  own  house.  Takes  it  in  her  hands 

as  if  it  were  her  right,  by !  "  The  colonel  let 

slip  another  expletive.  "  Well,"  he  sighed,  half 
amused  at  his  own  violence,  "  I  '11  write  to  Annie. 
I  promised  Moya,  and  it 's  high  time  I  did." 

Annie  was  the  colonel's  sister,  the  wife  of  an 

infantry  captain,  stationed  at  Fort  Sherman.     She 

was   a  very  understanding  woman ;  at    least    she 

understood  her  brother.     But  she  was  not  solely 

13 


THE   DESERT   AND   THE   SOWN 

dependent  upon  his  laggard  letters  for  information 
concerning  his  private  affairs.  The  approaching 
wedding  at  Bisuka  Barracks  was  the  topic  of  most 
of  the  military  families  in  the  Department  of  the 
Columbia.  Moya  herself  had  written  some  time 
before,  in  the  self-conscious  manner  of  the  newly 
engaged.  Her  aunt  knew  of  course  that  Moya  and 
Christine  Bogardus  had  been  room-mates  at  Miss 
Howard's,  that  the  girls  had  fallen  in  love  with 
each  other  first,  and  with  visits  at  holidays  and 
vacations,  when  the  army  girl  could  not  go  to  her 
father,  it  was  easily  seen  how  the  rest  had  followed. 
And  well  for  Moya  that  it  had,  was  Mrs.  Creve's 
indorsement.  As  a  family  they  were  quite  suffi 
ciently  represented  in  the  army  ;  and  if  one  should 
ever  get  an  Eastern  detail  it  would  be  very  plea 
sant  to  have  a  young  niece  charmingly  settled  in 
New  York. 

The  colonel  drew  a  match  across  the  top  bar  of 
the  grate  and  set  it  to  his  pipe.  His  big  nostrils 
whitened  as  he  took  a  deep  in-breath.  He  reseated 
himself  and  began  his  duty  letter  in  the  tone  of  a 
judicious  parent;  but,  warming  as  he  wrote,  under 
the  influence  of  Annie's  imagined  sympathy,  he 
presently  broke  forth  with  his  usual  arrogant  collo 
quialism. 

14 


INTRODUCING  A   SON-IN-LAW 

"  She  might  have  had  her  pick  of  the  junior 
officers  in  both  branches.  And  there  was  a  captain 
of  engineers  at  the  Presidio,  a  widower,  but  an 
awfully  good  fellow.  And  she  has  chosen  a  boy, 
full  of  transcendental  moonshine,  who  climbs  upon 
a  horse  as  if  it  were  a  stone  fence,  and  has  mixed 
ideas  which  side  of  himself  to  hang  a  pistol  on. 

"  I  have  no  particular  quarrel  with  the  lad,  bar 
ring  his  great  burly  mouthful  of  a  name,  Bo  —  gar- 
dus  !  To  call  a  child  Moya  and  have  her  fetch  up 
with  her  soft,  Irish  vowels  against  such  a  name  as 
that !  She  had  a  fond  idea  that  it  was  from  Beau- 
regard.  But  she  has  had  to  give  that  up.  It 's 
Dutch  —  Hudson  River  Dutch  —  for  something 
horticultural  —  a  tree,  or  an  orchard,  or  a  brush- 
pile  ;  and  she  says  it 's  a  good  name  where  it  be 
longs.  Pity  it  could  n't  have  stayed  where  it  be 
longs. 

"  However,  you  won't  find  him  quite  so  scrubby 
as  he  sounds.  He 's  very  proper  and  clean-shaven, 
with  a  good  pair  of  dark,  Dutch  eyes,  which  he  gets 
from  his  mother ;  and  I  wish  he  had  got  her  busi 
ness  ability  with  them,  and  her  horse  sense,  if  the 
lady  will  excuse  me.  She  runs  the  property  and 
he  spends  it,  as  far  as  she  '11  let  him,  on  the  newest 
reforms.  And  there  's  another  hitch !  —  To  belong 
15 


THE  DESERT  AND  THE  SOWN 

to  the  Truly  Good  at  twenty-four !  But  beggars 
can't  be  choosers.  He 's  going  to  settle  something 
handsome  on  Moya  out  of  the  portion  Madame  gives 
him  on  his  marriage.  My  poor  little  girl,  as  you 
know,  will  get  nothing  from  me  but  a  few  old  bits 
and  trinkets  and  a  father's  blessing,  —  the  same 
does  n't  go  for  much  in  these  days.  I  have  been  a 
better  dispenser  than  accumulator,  like  others  of 
our  name. 

"  I  do  assure  you,  Annie,  it  bores  me  down  to 
the  ground,  this  humanitarian  racket  from  children 
with  ugly  names  who  have  just  chipped  the  shell. 
This  one  owns  his  surprise  that  we  work  in  the  army ! 
That  our  junior  officers  teach,  and  study  a  bit  per 
force  themselves.  His  own  idea  is  that  every  West 
Pointer,  before  he  gets  his  commission,  should  serve 
a  year  or  two  in  the  ranks,  to  raise  the  type  of 
the  enlisted  man,  and  chiefly,  mark  you,  to  get  his 
point  of  view,  the  which  he  is  to  bear  in  mind  when  he 
comes  to  his  command.  Oh,  we  've  had  some  pretty 
arguments !  But  I  suspect  the  rascal  of  drawing 
it  mild,  at  this  stage,  for  the  old  dragon  who  guards 
his  Golden  Apple.  He  does  n't  want  to  poke  me 
up.-  How  far  he  'd  go  if  he  were  not  hampered 
in  his  principles  by  the  fact  that  he  is  in  love,  I 
cannot  say.  And  I  'd  rather  not  imagine." 
16 


INTRODUCING  A   SON-IN-LAW 

The  commandant's  house  at  Bisuka  Barracks  is 
the  nearest  one  to  the  flag-pole  as  you  go  up  a 
flight  of  wooden  steps  from  the  parade  ground. 
These  steps,  and  their  landings,  flanked  by  the  dry 
grass  terrace  of  the  line,  are  a  favorite  gather 
ing  place  for  young  persons  of  leisure  at  the  Post. 
They  face  the  valley  and  the  mountains  ;  they  lead 
past  the  adjutant's  office  to  the  main  road  to  town  ; 
they  command  the  daily  pageant  of  garrison  duty 
as  performed  at  such  distant,  un visited  posts,  with 
only  the  ladies  and  the  mountains  looking  on. 

Retreat  had  sounded  at  half  after  five,  for  the 
autumn  days  grew  short.  The  colonel's  orderly 
had  been  dismissed  to  his  quarters.  There  was  no 
excuse,  at  this  hour,  for  two  young  persons  linger 
ing  in  sentimental  corners  of  the  steps,  beyond  a 
flagrant  satisfaction  in  the  shadow  thereof  which 
covered  them  since  the  lighting  of  lamps  on  Officers' 
Row. 

The  colonel  stood  at  his  study  window  keeping 
his  pipe  alive  with  slow  and  dreamy  puffs.  The 
moon  was  just  clearing  the  roof  of  the  men's  quar 
ters.  His  eye  caught  a  shape,  or  a  commingling 
of  shapes,  ensconced  in  an  angle  of  the  steps ;  the 
which  he  made  out  to  be  his  daughter,  in  her  light 
evening  frock  with  one  of  his  own  old  army  capes 
17 


THE   DESERT  AND  THE   SOWN 

over  her  shoulders,  seated  in  close  formation  be 
side  the  only  man  at  the  Post  who  wore  civilian 
black. 

The  colonel  had  the  feelings  of  a  man  as  well 
as  a  father.  He  went  back  to  his  letter  with  a 
softened  look  in  his  face.  He  had  said  too  much ; 
he  always  did  —  to  Annie ;  and  now  he  must 
hedge  a  little  or  she  would  think  there  was  trouble 
brewing,  and  that  he  was  going  to  be  nasty  about 
Moya's  choice. 


18 


Ill 

THE  INITIAL  LOVE 

LET  us  be  simple !     Not  every  one  can  be, 
but  we  can.     We  can  afford  to  be,  and  we 
know  how !  " 

Moya  was  speaking  rapidly,  in  her  singularly 
articulate  tones.  A  reader  of  voices  would  have 
pronounced  hers  the  physical  record  of  unbroken 
health  and  constant,  joyous  poise. 

"  Hear  the  word  of  your  prophet  Emerson ! " 
she  brought  a  little  fist  down  upon  her  knee  for 
emphasis,  a  hand  several  sizes  larger  closed  upon 
it  and  held  it  fast.  "  Hear  the  word  —  are  you 
listening  ?  '  Only  two  in  the  Garden  walked  and 
with  Snake  and  Seraph  talked.'  " 

The  young  man's  answer  was  an  instant's  im 
passioned  silence.  Too  close  it  touched  him,  that 
vital  image  of  the  Garden.  Then,  with  an  effect 
of  sternness,  he  said, — 

"  Have  we  the  right  to  do  as  we  please  ?     Have 
we  the  courage  that  comes  of  right  to  cut  ourselves 
off  from  all  those  calls  and  cries  for  help  ?  " 
19 


THE   DESERT  AND  THE   SOWN 

"  /  have,"  said  the  girl ;  "  I  have  just  that  right 

—  of  one  who  knows  exactly  what  she  wants,  and 
is  going  to  get  it  if  she  can  !  " 

He  laughed  at  her  happy  insolence,  with  which 
all  the  youth  and  nature  in  him  made  common 
cause. 

"  I  should  n't  mind  thinking  about  your  Poor 
Man,"  she  tripped  along,  "  if  he  liked  being  poor, 
or  if  it  seemed  to  improve  him  any ;  or  if  it  were 
only  now  and  then.  But  there  is  so  dreadfully 
much  of  him !  Once  we  begin,  how  should  we  ever 
think  about  anything  else  ?  He  'd  rise  up  and  sit 
down  with  us,  and  eat  and  drink  with  us,  and  tell 
us  what  to  wear.  Every  pleasure  of  our  lives 
would  be  spoiled  with  his  eternal  '  Where  'do  / 
come  in  ? '  It  was  simple  enough  in  that  garden, 
with  only  those  two  and  nobody  outside  to  feel 
injured.  But  we  are  those  two,  are  n't  we  ?  Is  n't 
everybody  —  once  in  a  life,  and  once  only  ?  "  She 
turned  her  face  aside,  slighting  by  her  manner  the 
excessive  meaning  of  her  words.  "  I  ask  for  my 
self  only  what  I  think  I  have  a  right  to  give  you 

—  my  absolute  undivided  attention  for  those  first 
few  years.    They  say  it  never  lasts  !  "  she  hastened 
to  add  with  playful  cynicism. 

Young  Bogardus  seemed  incapable  under  the 
20 


THE   INITIAL   LOVE 

circumstances  of  any  adequate  reply.  Free  as  they 
were  in  words,  there  was  an  extreme  personal  shy 
ness  between  these  proud  young  persons,  undevel 
oped  on  the  side  of  passion  and  better  versed  in 
theories  of  life  than  in  life  itself.  They  had  sepa 
rated  the  day  after  their  sudden  engagement,  and 
their  nearest  approaches  to  intimacy  had  been 
through  letters.  Naturally  the  girl  was  the  bolder, 
having  less  in  herself  to  fear. 

"  That  is  what  /  call  being  simple,"  she  went 
on  briskly.  "  If  you  think  we  can  be  that  in  New 
York,  let  us  live  there.  /  could  be  simple  there, 
but  not  with  you,  sir !  That  terrible  East  Side 
would  be  shaking  its  gory  locks  at  us.  We  should 
feel  that  we  did  it  —  or  you  would !  Then  good-by 
to  life,  liberty,  and  the  pursuit  of  happiness  !  " 

"  You  are  my  life,  liberty,  and  happiness,  and  I 
will  be  your  almoner,"  said  Paul,  "  and  dispense 

you"  — 

"  Dispense  with  me ! "  laughed  the  girl.  "  And 
what  shall  I  be  doing  while  you  are  dispensing  me 
on  the  East  Side?  New  York  has  other  sides. 
While  you  go  slumming  with  the  Seraph,  I  shall  be 
talking  to  the  Snake  !  Now,  do  laugh !  "  she  en 
treated  childishly,  turning  her  sparkling  face  to  his. 

"  Am  I  expected  to  laugh  at  that  ?  " 
21 


THE  DESERT  AND   THE   SOWN 

"  Well,  what  shall  we  do  ?  Don't  make  me 
harden  my  heart  before  it  has  had  time  to  soften 
naturally.  Give  my  poor  pagan  sympathies  a  lit 
tle  time  to  ripen." 

"  But  you  have  lived  in  New  York.  Did  you 
find  it  such  a  strain  on  your  sympathies  ?  " 

"  I  was  a  visitor ;  and  a  girl  is  not  expected  to 
have  sympathies.  But  to  begin  our  home  there  : 
we  should  have  to  strike  a  note  of  some  sort.  How 
if  my  note  should  jar  with  yours  ?  Paul,  dear,  it 
is  n't  nice  to  have  convictions  when  one  is  young 
and  going  to  be  married.  You  know  it  is  n't. 
It 's  not  poetic,  and  it 's  not  polite,  and  it 's  a 
dreadful  bore  !  " 

The  altruist  and  lover  winced  at  this.  Allow 
ing  for  exaggeration,  which  was  the  life  of  speech 
with  her,  he  knew  that  Moya  was  giving  him  a  bit 
of  her  true  self,  that  changeful,  changeless  self 
which  goes  behind  all  law  and  "  follows  joy  and 
only  joy."  Her  voice  dropped  into  its  sweetest 
tones  of  intimacy. 

"  Why  need  we  live  in  a  crowd  ?  Why  must  we 
be  pressed  upon  with  all  this  fuss  and  doing? 
Doing,  doing  !  We  are  not  ready  to  do  anything 
yet.  Every  day  must  have  its  dawn  ;  —  and  I 
don't  see  my  way  yet ;  I  'm  hardly  awake  !  " 
22 


THE   INITIAL  LOVE 

"  Darling,  hush !  You  must  not  say  such  things 
to  me.  For  you  only  to  look  at  me  like  that  is  the 
most  terrible  temptation  of  my  life.  You  make 
me  forget  everything  a  man  is  bound  —  that  I  of 
all  men  am  bound  to  remember." 

"  Then  I  will  keep  on  looking !  Behold,  I  am 
Happiness,  Selfishness,  if  you  like  !  I  have  come 
to  stay.  No,  really,  it 's  not  nice  of  you  to  act 
as  if  you  were  under  higher  orders.  You  are  under 
my  orders.  What  right  have  we  to  choose  each 
other  if  we  are  not  to  be  better  to  each  other  than 
to  any  one  else  ?  —  if  our  lives  belong  to  any  one 
who  needs  us,  or  our  time  and  money,  more  than 
we  need  it  ourselves  ?  Why  did  you  choose  me  ? 
Why  not  somebody  pathetic  —  one  of  your  Poor 
Things ;  or  else  save  yourself  whole  for  all  the 
Poor  Things?" 

"  Now  you  are  '  talking  for  victory,'  "  he  smiled. 
"You  don't  believe  we  must  be  as  consistent  as 
all  that.  Hearts  don't  have  to  be  coddled  like 
pears  picked  for  market.  But  I  'm  not  preach 
ing  to  you.  The  heavens  forbid !  I  'm  trying 
to  explain.  You  don't  think  this  whole  thing 
with  me  is  a  pose  ?  I  know  I  'm  a  bore  with 
my  convictions ;  but  how  do  we  come  by  such 
things  ?  " 

O 

23 


THE   DESERT  AND  THE   SOWN 

"  Ah !  How  do  I  come  not  to  have  any,  or  to 
want  any?  "  she  rejoined. 

"  Once  for  all,  let  me  tell  you  how  I  came  by 
mine.  Then  you  will  know  just  where  and  how 
those  cries  for  help  take  hold  on  me." 

"  I  don't  wish  to  know.  Preserve  me  from 
knowing !  Why  did  n't  you  choose  somebody 
different?" 

He  looked  at  her  with  all  his  passion  in  his  eyes. 
"  I  did  not  choose.  Did  you  ?  " 

"  It  is  n't  too  late,"  she  whispered.  Her  face 
grew  hot  in  the  darkness. 

"  Yes ;  it  is  too  late  —  for  anything  but  the 
truth.  Will  you  listen,  sweet  ?  Will  you  let  the 
nonsense  wait  ?  " 

"  Deeper  and  deeper !  Have  n't  we  reached  the 
bottom  yet  ?  " 

"  Go  on  !  It 's  the  dearest  nonsense,"  she  heard 
him  say  ;  but  she  detected  pain  in  his  voice  and  a 
new  constraint. 

"  What  is  it  ?     What  is  the  '  truth '  ?  " 

"  Oh,  it 's  not  so  dreadful.  Only,  you  always 
put  me  in  quite  a  different  class  from  where  I  be 
long,  and  I  have  n't  had  the  courage  to  set  you 
right." 

"  Children,  children  !  "  a  young  voice  called, 
24 


THE   INITIAL   LOVE 

from  the  lighted  walk  above.  Two  figures  were 
going  down  the  line,  one  in  uniform  keeping  step 
beside  a  girl  in  white  who  reefed  back  her  skirts 
with  one  hand,  the  other  was  raised  to  her  hair 
which  was  blowing  across  her  forehead  in  bewitch 
ing  disorder.  Every  gesture  and  turn  of  her  shape 
announced  that  she  was  pretty  and  gay  in  the 
knowledge  of  her  power.  It  was  Chrissy,  walking 
with  Lieutenant  Lane. 

"  Where  are  you  —  ridiculous  ones  ?  Don't  you 
want  to  come  with  us  ?  " 

"  '  Now  who  were  they  ? ' "  Paul  quoted  deri 
sively  out  of  the  dark. 

"  We  are  going  to  Captain  Dawson's  to  play 
Hearts.  Come  !  Don't  be  stupid !  " 

"  We  are  not  stupid,  we  are  busy ! "  Moya 
called  back. 

"Busy!     Doing  what?" 

"  Oh,  deciding  things.  We  are  talking  about 
the  Poor  Man." 

"  The  poor  men,  she  means."  Christine's  high 
laugh  followed  the  lieutenant's  speech,  as  the  pair 
went  on. 

"  He  is  a  bore  !  "  Moya  declared.  "  We  can't 
even  use  him  for  a  joke." 

"  Speaking  of  Lane,  dear  ?  " 
25 


THE   DESERT  AND  THE   SOWN 

"  The  Poor  Man.  Are  you  sure  that  you  've  got 
a  sense  of  humor,  Paul  ?  Can't  we  have  charity 
for  jokes  among  the  other  poor  things  ?  " 

Paul  had  raised  himself  to  the  step  beside  her. 
"  You  are  shivering,"  he  said,  "  I  must  let  you  go 
in." 

"  I  'in  not  shivering  —  I  'm  chattering,"  she 
mocked.  "  Why  should  I  go  in  when  we  are 
going  to  be  really  serious  ?  " 

Paul  waited  a  moment ;  his  breath  came  short, 
as  if  he  were  facing  a  postponed  dread.  "  Moya, 
dear,"  he  began  in  a  forced  tone,  "  I  can't  help  my 
constraints  and  convictions  that  bore  you  so,  any 
more  than  you  can  help  your  light  heart  —  God 
bless  it  —  and  your  theory  of  class  which  to  me 
seems  mediaeval.  I  have  cringed  to  it,  like  the 
coward  a  man  is  when  he  is  in  love.  But  now  I 
want  you  to  know  me." 

He  took  her  hand  and  kissed  it  repeatedly,  as 
if  impressing  upon  her  the  one  important  fact 
back  of  all  hypothesis  and  perilous  efforts  at  state 
ment. 

"  Well,  are  you  bidding  me  good-by  ?  " 

"  You  must  give  me  time,"  he  said.  "  It  takes 
courage  in  these  days  for  a  good  American  to  tell 
the  girl  he  loves  that  his  father  was  a  hired  man." 
26 


THE   INITIAL   LOVE 

He  smiled,  but  there  was  little  mirth  and  less  color 
in  his  face. 

"  What  absurdity  !  "  cried  Moya.  Then  glan 
cing  at  him  she  added  quickly,  "  My  father  is  a 
hired  man.  Most  fathers  who  are  worth  anything 
are !  " 

"  My  father  was  because  he  came  of  that  class. 
His  father  was  one  before  him.  His  mother  took 
in  tailoring  in  the  village  where  he  was  born.  He 
had  only  the  commonest  common-school  education 
and  not  much  of  that.  At  eleven  he  worked  for 
his  board  and  clothes  at  my  Grandfather  Van 
Elten's,  and  from  that  time  he  earned  his  bread 
with  his  hands.  Don't  imagine  that  I  'in  apolo 
gizing,"  Paul  went  on  rapidly.  "  The  apology 
belongs  on  the  other  side.  In  New  York,  for  in 
stance,  the  Bogardus  blood  is  quite  as  good  as  the 
Bevier  or  the  Broderick  or  the  Van  Elten  ;  but  up 
the  Hudson,  owing  to  those  chances  or  mischances 
that  selected  our  farming  aristocracy  for  us,  my 
father's  people  had  slipped  out  of  their  holdings  and 
sunk  to  the  poor  artisan  class  which  the  old  Dutch 
landowners  held  in  contempt." 

"  We  are  not  landowners,"  said  Moya.  "  What 
does  it  matter  ?  What  does  any  of  it  matter  ?  " 

"  It  matters  to  be  honest  and  not  sail  under 
27 


THE  DESERT  AND   THE   SOWN 

false  colors.  I  thought  you  would  not  speak  of  the 
Poor  Man  as  you  do  if  you  knew  that  I  am  his 
son." 

"  Money  has  nothing  to  do  with  position  in  the 
army.  I  am  a  poor  man's  daughter." 

"  Ah,  child  !  Your  father  gives  orders  —  mine 
took  them,  all  his  life." 

"  My  father  has  to  take  what  he  gives.  There 
is  no  escaping  '  orders.'  Even  I  know  that !  "  said 
Moya.  A  slight  shiver  passed  over  her  as  she 
spoke,  laughing  off  as  usual  the  touch  of  serious 
ness  in  her  words. 

"  Why  did  you  do  that  ?  "  Paul  touched  her 
shoulder.  "  Is  it  the  wind  ?  There  is  a  wind  creep 
ing  down  these  steps."  He  improved  the  formation 
slightly  in  respect  to  the  wind. 

" Listen !  "  said  Moya.  "  Isn't  that  your  mother 
walking  on  the  porch  ?  Father,  I  know,  is  writing. 
She  will  be  lonely." 

"  She  is  never  lonely,  more  or  less.  It  is  always 
the  same  loneliness  —  of  a  woman  widowed  for 
years." 

"  How  very  much  she  must  have  cared  for  him !  " 

Moya  sighed    incredulously.      What  a  pity,   she 

thought,  that  among  the  humbler  vocations  Paul's 

father  should  have  been  just  a  plain  "  hired  man." 

28 


THE   INITIAL   LOVE 

Cowboy,  miner,  man-o'-war's  man,  even  enlisted 
man,  though  that  were  bad  enough  —  any  of  these 
he  might  have  been  in  an  accidental  way,  that  at 
least  would  have  been  picturesque ;  but  it  is  only 
the  possession  of  land,  by  whatsoever  means  or 
title,  that  can  dignify  an  habitual  personal  contact 
with  it  in  the  form  of  soil.  That  is  one  of  the  ac 
cepted  prejudices  which  one  does  not  meddle  with 
at  nineteen.  "  Youth  is  conservative  because  it  is 
afraid."  Moya,  for  all  her  fighting  blood,  was 
traditionally  and  in  social  ways  much  more  in 
bonds  than  Paul,  who  had  inherited  his  father's 
dreamy  speculative  habit  of  thought,  with  some 
thing  of  the  farm-hand's  distrust  of  society  and  its 
forms  and  shibboleth. 

Paul's  voice  took  a  narrative  tone,  and  Moya 
gave  herself  up  to  listening  —  to  him  rather  more, 
perhaps,  than  to  his  story. 

Few  young  men  of  twenty-four  can  go  very 
deeply  into  questions  of  heredity.  Of  what  follows 
here  much  was  not  known  to  Paul.  Much  that  he 
did  know  he  wovdd  have  interpreted  differently. 
The  old  well  at  Stone  Ridge,  for  instance,  had  no 
place  in  his  recital ;  and  yet  out  of  it  sprang  the 
history  of  his  shorn  generation.  Had  Paul's  mother 
grown  up  in  a  houseful  of  brothers  and  sisters, 
29 


THE   DESERT  AND   THE   SOWN 

governed  by  her  mother  instead  of  an  old  ignorant 
servant,  in  all  likelihood  she  would  have  married 
differently  —  more  wisely  but  not  perhaps  so  well, 
her  son  would  loyally  have  maintained.  The  sons 
of  the  rich  farmers  who  would  have  been  her  suitors 
were  men  inferior  to  their  fathers.  They  inherited 
the  vigor  and  coarseness  of  constitution,  the  un 
abashed  materialism  of  that  earlier  generation  that 
spent  its  energies  coping  with  Nature  on  its  stony 
farms,  but  the  sons  were  spared  the  need  of  that  hard 
labor  which  their  blood  required.  They  supplied 
an  element  of  force,  but  one  of  great  corruption 
later,  in  the  state  politics  of  their  time. 


30 


IV 

A  MAN  THAT  HAD  A  WELL  IN  HIS  OWN  COURT 

IN  the  kitchen  court  called  the  "  Airy "  at 
Abraham  Van  Elten's,  there  was  one  of  those 
old  family  wells  which  our  ancestors  used  to  locate 
so  artlessly.  And  when  it  tapped  the  kitchen  drain , 
and  typhoid  took  the  elder  children,  and  the  mother 
followed  the  children,  it  was  called  the  will  of  God. 
A  gloomy  distinction  rested  on  the  house.  Abra 
ham  felt  the  importance  attaching  to  any  supreme 
experience  in  a  community  where  life  runs  on  in 
the  middle  key. 

A  young  doctor  who  had  been  called  in  at  the 
close  of  the  last  case  went  prying  about  the  pre 
mises,  asking  foolish  questions  that  angered  Abra 
ham.  It  is  easier  for  some  natures  to  suffer  than  to 
change.  If  the  farmer  had  ever  drunk  water  him 
self,  except  as  tea  or  coffee,  or  mixed  with  something 
stronger,  he  must  have  been  an  early  victim  to  his 
own  crass  ignorance.  He  was  a  vigorous,  heavy-set 
man,  a  grand  field  for  typhoid.  But  he  prospered, 
31 


THE   DESERT  AND  THE   SOWN 

and  the  young  doctor  was  turned  down  with  the 
full  weight  and  breadth  of  the  Van  Elten  thumb, 
or  the  Broderick ;  Abraham's  build  was  that  of  his 
maternal  grandmother,  Hillotje  Broderick. 

On  the  Ridge,  which  later  developed  into  a  val 
uable  slate  quarry,  there  was  a  spring  of  water, 
cold  and  perpetual,  flowing  out  of  the  trap-forma 
tion.  Abraham  had  piped  this  water  down  to  his 
barns  and  cattle-sheds  ;  it  furnished  power  for  the 
farm-work.  But  to  bring  it  to  the  house,  in  obe 
dience  to  the  doctor's  meddlesome  advice,  would  be 
an  acknowledgment  of  fatal  mistakes  in  the  past ; 
would  raise  talk  and  blame  among  the  neighbors, 
and  do  away  with  the  honor  of  a  special  visitation  ; 
would  cost  no  trifle  of  money;  would  justify  the 
doctor's  interference,  and  insult  the  old  well  of  his 
father  and  his  father's  father,  the  fountain  of  gen 
erations.  To  seal  its  mouth  and  bid  its  usefulness 
cease  in  the  house  where  it  had  ministered  for  up 
wards  of  a  hundred  years  was  an  act  of  desecration 
impossible  to  the  man  who  in  his  stolid  way  loved 
the  very  stones  that  lined  its  slimy  sides.  The  few 
sentiments  that  had  taken  hold  on  Abraham's  arid 
nature  went  as  deep  as  his  obstinacy  and  clung  as 
fast  as  his  distrust  of  new  opinions  and  new  men. 
The  question  of  water  supply  was  closed  in  his 
32 


A   WELL   IN  HIS  OWN  COURT 

house  ;  but  the  well  remained  open  and  kept  up  its 
illicit  connection  with  the  drain. 

Old  Becky,  keeper  of  the  widower's  keys,  had 
followed  closely  the  history  of  those  unhappy 
"  cases ;  "  she  had  listened  to  discussions,  violent 
or  suppressed,  she  had  heard  much  talk  that  went 
on  behind  her  master's  back. 

Employers  of  that  day  and  generation  were 
masters ;  and  masters  are  meant  to  be  outwitted. 
Emily,  the  youngest  and  last  of  the  flock,  was  now 
a  child  of  four,  dark  like  her  mother,  sturdy  and 
strong  like  her  father.  On  an  August  day  soon 
after  the  mother's  funeral,  Becky  took  her  little 
charge  to  the  well  and  showed  her  a  tumbler  filled 
with  water  not  freshly  drawn. 

"  See  them  little  specks  and  squirmy  things  ?  " 
Emmy  saw  them.  She  followed  their  wavering 
motion  in  the  glass  as  the  stern  forefinger  pointed. 
"  Those  are  little  baby  snakes,"  said  Becky  mys 
teriously.  "  The  well  is  full  of  'em.  Sometimes 
you  can  see  'em,  sometimes  you  can't,  but  they  're 
always  there.  They  never  grow  big  down  the  well ; 
it 's  too  dark  V  cold.  But  you  drink  that  water 
and  the  snakes  will  grow  and  wriggle  and  work  all 
through  ye,  and  eat  your  insides  out,  and  you'll 
die.  Your  mother  "  —  in  a  whisper —  "  she  drunk 
33 


THE   DESERT   AND   THE   SOWN 

that  water,  and  she  died.  Your  sister  Ruth,  and 
Dirck,  and  Jimmy,  they  drunk  it,  and  they  died. 
Now  if  Emmy  wants  to  die  "  —  Large  eyes  of 
horror  fastened  on  the  speaker's  face.  "No — o, 
she  don't  want  to  die,  the  Loveums !  She  don't 
want  Becky  to  have  no  little  girl  left  at  all !  No ; 
we  must  n't  ever  drink  any  of  that  bad  water  —  all 
full  of  snakes,  ugh !  But  if  Emmy  's  thirsty,  see 
here  !  Here 's  good  nice  water.  It 's  going  to  be 
always  here  in  this  pail  —  same  water  the  little 
lambs  drink  up  in  the  fields.  Becky  '11  take  Emmy 
up  on  the  hill  sometime  and  show  where  the  little 
lambs  drink." 

Grief  had  not  clouded  the  farmer's  oversight  in 
petty  things.  He  noticed  the  innocent  pail  on  the 
area  bench,  never  empty,  always  specklessly  clean. 

"What  is  this  water?  "  he  asked. 

Becky  was  surly.  "  Drinking  water.  Want 
some  ?  " 

"  What 's  it  doing  here  all  the  time  ?  " 

"  I  set  it  there  for  Emmy.  She  can't  reach  up 
to  the  bucket." 

Abraham  tasted  the  water  suspiciously.  The 
well-water  was  hard,  with  a  tang  of  iron.  The 
spring  soft,  and  less  cold  for  its  journey  to  the  barn. 

"  Where  did  you  get  this  water  ?  " 
34 


A  WELL  IN  HIS   OWN   COURT 

"  Help  yourself.     There  's  plenty  more." 

"  Becky,  where  did  this  water  come  from  ?  Out 
o'  the  well?" 

Becky  gave  a  snort  of  exasperation.  "  Sam 
Lewis  brought  it  from  the  barn !  I  'm  too  lame 
to  be  histin'  buckets.  I  've  got  the  rheumatiz' 
awful  in  my  back  and  shoulders,  if  ye  want  to 
know!" 

"  Becky,  you  're  lying  to  me.  You  've  been  lis 
tening  to  what  don't  concern  you.  Now,  see  here. 
You  are  not  going  to  ask  the  men  to  carry  water 
for  you.  They  Ve  got  something  else  to  do.  There'' s 
your  water,  as  handy  as  ever  a  woman  had  it ;  use 
that  or  go  without." 

Abraham  caught  up  the  pail  and  flung  its  con 
tents  out  upon  the  grass,  scattering  the  hens  that 
came  sidling  back  with  squawks  of  inquiring  te 
merity. 

When  next  Emmy  came  for  water,  the  old  wo 
man  took  her  by  the  hand  in  silence  and  led  her 
into  the  dim  meat-cellar,  a  half-basement  with  one 
low  window  level  with  the  grass.  There  was  the 
pail,  safe  hidden  behind  the  soft-soap  barrel. 

"  I  had  to  hide  it  from  your  pa,"  Becky  whis 
pered.  "  Don't  you  never  let  him  know  you  're 
afraid  o'  the  well-water.  He  drunk  it  when  he 
35 


THE  DESERT  AND  THE   SOWN 

was  a  little  boy.  He  don't  believe  in  the  snakes. 
But  there  wasn't  none  then.  It 's  when  water 
gets  old  and  rotten.  You  can  believe  what  Becky 
says.  She  knows !  But  you  must  n't  ever  tell. 
Your  father  'd  be  as  mad  as  fire  if  he  knowed  I 
said  anything  about  snakes.  He  'd  send  me  right 
away,  and  some  strange  woman  would  come,  and 
maybe  she  'd  whip  Emmy.  Emmy  want  Becky 
to  go  ?  "  Sobs,  and  little  arms  clinging  wildly  to 
Becky's  aproned  skirts.  "No,  no!  Well,  she  ain't 
goin'.  But  Emmy  must  n't  tell  tales  or  she  might 
have  to.  Tattlers  are  wicked  anyway.  '  Telltale 
tit !  Your  tongue  shall  be  slit,  and  all  the  little 
dogs '  —  There  !  run  now !  There  's  your  poppy. 
Don't  you  never,  —  never  !  " 

Emmy  let  her  eyes  be  wiped,  and  with  one  long, 
solemn,  secret  look  of  awed  intelligence  she  ran 
out  to  meet  her  father.  She  did  not  love  him,  and 
the  smile  with  which  she  met  him  was  no  new 
lesson  in  diplomacy.  But  her  first  secret  from  him 
lay  deep  in  the  beautiful  eyes,  her  mother's  eyes, 
as  she  raised  them  to  his. 

"  Ain't  that  wonderful !  "   said   Becky,  with  a 

satisfied  sigh,  watching  her.    "  Safe  as  a  jug  !    An' 

she  not  five   years  old !  "     For  vital  reasons  she 

had  taught  the  child  an  ugly  lesson.     Such  lessons 

36 


A   WELL   IN   HIS   OWN   COURT 

were  common  enough  in  her  experience  of  family 
discipline.     She  never  thought  of  it  again. 

That  year  which  took  Emmy's  mother  from  her 
brought  to  the  child  her  first  young  companion 
and  friend.  Adam  Bogardus  came  as  chore-boy 
to  the  farm,  —  an  only  child  himself,  and  sensitive 
through  the  clashing  of  gentle  instincts  with  rough 
and  inferior  surroundings ;  brought  up  in  that  de 
pressed  God-fearing  attitude  in  which  a  widow  not 
strong,  and  earning  her  bread,  would  do  her  duty 
by  an  only  son.  Not  a  natural  fighter,  she  took 
what  little  combativeness  he  had  out  of  him,  and 
made  his  school-days  miserable  —  a  record  of  hu 
miliations  that  sunk  deep  and  drove  him  from  his 
kind.  He  was  a  big,  clumsy,  sagacious  boy,  grave 
as  an  old  man,  always  snubbed  and  condescended 
to,  yet  always  trusted.  Little  Emmy  made  him 
her  bondslave  at  sight.  His  whole  soul  blossomed 
in  adoration  of  the  beautiful,  masterful  child  who 
ordered  him  about  as  her  vassal,  while  slipping  a 
soft  little  trustful  hand  in  his.  She  trotted  at  his 
heels  like  one  of  the  lambs  or  chickens  that  he 
fed.  She  brought  him  into  perpetual  disgrace  with 
Becky,  for  wasting  his  time  through  her  imperious 
demands.  She  was  the  burden,  the  delight,  the 
handicap,  the  incentive,  and  the  reward  of  his 
37 


THE   DESERT  AND   THE   SOWN 

humble  apprenticeship.  And  when  he  was  pro 
moted  to  be  one  of  the  regular  hands  she  followed 
him  still,  and  got  her  pleasure  out  of  his  day's 
work.  No  one  had  such  patience  to  tell  her  things, 
to  wait  for  her  and  help  her  over  places  where  her 
tagging  powers  fell  short.  But  though  she  bullied 
him,  she  looked  up  to  him  as  well.  His  occupa 
tions  commanded  her  respect.  He  was  the  god  of 
the  orchards  and  of  the  cider-making ;  he  presided 
at  all  the  functions  of  the  farm  year.  He  was  a 
perfect  calendar  besides  of  country  sports  in  their 
season.  He  swept  the  ice  pools  in  the  meadow 
for  winter  sliding,  after  his  day's  work  was  done. 
He  saved  up  paper  and  string  for  kite-making  in 
March.  He  knew  when  willow  bark  would  slip 
for  April's  whistles.  In  the  first  heats  of  June  he 
climbed  the  tall  locust-trees  to  put  up  a  swing  in 
which  she  could  dream  away  the  perfumed  hours. 
At  harvest  she  waited  in  the  meadow  for  him  to 
toss  her  up  on  the  hay-loads,  and  his  great  arms 
received  her  when  she  slid  off  in  the  barn.  She 
knelt  at  his  feet  on  the  bumping  boards  of  the 
farm-wagon  while  he  braced  himself  like  a  char 
ioteer,  holding  the  reins  above  her  head.  He 
threshed  the  nut-trees  and  routed  marauding  boys 
from  her  preserves,  and  carved  pumpkin  lanterns 
38 


A  WELL   IN   HIS  OWN   COURT 

to  light  her  to  her  attic  chamber  on  cold  Novem 
ber  nights,  where  she  would  lie  awake  watching 
strange  shadows  on  the  sloping  roof,  half  wor 
shiping,  half  afraid  of  her  idol's  ugliness  in  the 
dark. 

These  were  some  of  Paul's  illustrations  of  that 
pastoral  beginning,  and  no  doubt  they  were  sympa 
thetically  close  to  the  truth.  He  lingered  over 
them,  dressing  up  his  mother's  choice  instinctively 
to  the  little  aristocrat  beside  him. 

When  Emmy  grew  big  enough  to  go  to  the 
Academy,  three  miles  from  the  farm,  it  was  all  in 
the  day's  work  that  Adam  should  take  her  and 
fetch  her  home.  He  combined  her  with  the  mail, 
the  blacksmith,  and  other  village  errands.  Whoever 
met  her  father's  team  on  those  long  stony  hills  of 
Saugerties  would  see  his  little  daughter  seated  be 
side  his  hired  man,  her  face  turned  up  to  his  in 
endless  confiding  talk.  It  was  a  face,  as  we  say,  to 
dream  of.  But  there  were  few  dreamers  in  that 
little  world.  The  farmers  would  nod  gravely  to 
Adam.  "  Abraham's  girl  takes  after  her  mother  ; 
heartier  lookin',  though.  Guess  he  '11  need  a  set 
o'  new  tires  before  spring."  The  comments  went 
no  deeper. 

Abraham  was  now  well  on  in  years  ;  he  made  no 
39 


THE   DESERT  AND   THE   SOWN 

visits,  and  he  never  drove  his  own  team  at  night. 
When  his  daughter  began  to  let  down  her  frocks 
and  be  asked  to  evening  parties,  it  was  still  Adam 
who  escorted  her.  He  sat  in  the  kitchen  while  she 
was  amusing  herself  in  the  parlor.  She  discussed 
her  young  acquaintances  with  him  on  their  way 
home.  The  time  for  distinctions  had  come,  but  she 
was  too  innocent  to  feel  them  herself,  and  too 
proud  to  accept  the  standards  of  others.  He  was 
absolutely  honest  and  unworldly.  He  thought  it 
no  treachery  to  love  her  for  herself,  and  he  believed, 
as  most  of  us  do,  that  his  family  was  as  good  as 
hers  or  any  other. 

It  would  be  hard  to  explain  the  old  man's  oblivi- 
ousness.  Perhaps  he  had  forgotten  his  own  youth ; 
or  class  prejudice  had  gone  so  deep  with  him  as 
to  preclude  the  bare  thought  of  a  child  of  his  falling 
in  love  with  one  of  his  "men."  His  imagination 
could  not  so  insult  his  own  blood.  But  when  the 
awakening  came,  his  passion  of  anger  and  resent 
ment  knew  no  bounds.  To  discharge  his  faithless 
employee  out  of  hand  would  be  the  cripple  throw 
ing  away  his  crutch.  Though  he  called  Adam  one 
of  his  men,  and  though  his  pay  was  that  of  a  com 
mon  laborer,  his  duties  had  long  been  of  a  much 
higher  order.  Abraham  had  made  a  very  good 
40 


A   WELL   IN   HIS   OWN   COURT 

bargain  out  of  the  widow's  son.  Adam  knew  well 
that  he  could  not  be  spared,  and  pitied  the  old 
man's  helpless  rage.  He  took  his  frantic  insults 
as  part  of  his  senility,  and  felt  it  no  unrnanliness 
to  appease  it  by  giving  his  promise  that  he  would 
speak  no  more  of  love  to  Emmy  while  he  was  tak 
ing  her  father's  wages.  But  Emmy  did  not  in 
dorse  this  promise  fully.  To  her  it  looked  like 
weakness,  and  implied  a  sort  of  patience  which  did 
not  become  a  lover  such  as  she  wished  hers  to  be. 
The  winter  wore  on  uncomfortably  for  all.  To 
wards  spring,  Becky's  last  illness  and  passing  away 
brought  the  younger  ones  together  again,  and  closer 
than  before.  Adam  kept  his  promise  through  days 
and  nights  of  sickroom  intimacy ;  but  though  no 
word  of  love  was  spoken,  each  bore  silent  witness 
to  what  was  loveliest  in  the  other,  and  the  bond 
between  them  deepened. 

Then  spring  came,  and  its  restlessness  was  strong 
upon  them  both.  But  it  was  Emmy  to  whom  it 
meant  action  and  rebellion. 

They  stood  on  the  orchard  hill  one  Sunday  after 
noon  at  the  pause  of  the  year.  Buds  were  swelling 
and  the  edges  of  the  woods  wore  a  soft  blush  against 
the  vaporous  sky.  The  bare  brown  slopes  were 
streaked  with  snow.  A  floe  of  winter  ice,  grind- 
41 


THE   DESERT   AND   THE   SOWN 

ing  upon  itself  with  the  tide,  glared  yellow  as  an 
old  man's  teeth  in  the  setting  sun.  From  across 
the  river  came  the  thunder  of  a  train,  bound  north, 
two  engines  dragging  forty  cars  of  freight  piled  up 
by  some  recent  traffic-jam  ;  it  plunged  into  a  tun 
nel,  and  they  waited,  listening  to  the  monster's 
smothered  roar.  Out  it  burst,  its  breath  packed 
into  clouds,  the  engines  whooped,  and  round  the 
curve  where  a  point  of  cedars  cut  the  sky  the  huge 
creature  unwound  itself,  the  hills  echoing  to  its 
tread. 

Emmy  watched  it  out  of  sight,  and  breathed 
again.  "  Hundreds,  hundreds  going  every  day ! 
It  seems  easy  enough  for  everybody  else.  Oh,  if 
I  were  a  man !  " 

"  What  do  you  want  I  should  do,  Emmy  ?  " 
Adam  knew  well  what  man  she  was  thinking  of. 

"  /  want  ?  Don't  you  ever  want  things  your 
self?" 

"  When  I  want  a  thing  bad,  I  gen'ly  think  it 's 
worth  waiting  for." 

"  People  don't  get  things  by  waiting.  I  don't 
know  how  you  can  stand  it,  —  to  stay  here  year 
after  year.  And  now  you  've  tied  yourself  up  with 
a  promise,  and  you  know  you  cannot  keep  it !  " 

"  I  'm  trying  to  keep  it." 
42 


A  WELL   IN   HIS   OWN   COURT 

"  You  could  n't  keep  it  if  you  cared  —  really  and 
truly  —  as  some  do  !  "  She  dropped  her  voice  hur 
riedly.  "  To  live  here  and  eat  your  meals  day 
after  day  and  pass  me  like  a  stick  or  a  stone  !  " 

The  slow  blood  burned  in  Adam's  face  and  ham 
mered  in  his  pulses.  His  blue  eyes  were  bashful 
through  its  heat.  "  I  don't  feel  like  a  stick  nor 
a  stone.  You  know  it,  Emmy.  You  want  to  be 
careful,"  he  added  gently.  "  Would  going  away 
look  as  if  I  cared  ?  " 

"  Why  —  why  don't  you  ask  me  to  go  with  you  ?  " 
The  girl  tried  to  meet  his  eyes.  She  turned  off 
her  question  with  a  proud  laugh. 

"Be  —  careful,  child  !  You  know  why  I  can't 
take  you  up  on  that.  Would  you  want  we  should 
leave  him  here  alone  —  without  even  Becky  ? 
You  're  only  trying  me  for  fun." 

"No;  I  am  not!  "     Emmy  was  pale  now.    Her 

breast  was  rising  in  strong  excitement.      "  If  we 

were  gone,  he  would  know  then  what  you  are  worth 

to  him.     Now,  you  're  only  Adam  !     He  thinks  he 

can  put  you  down  like  a  boy.     He  won't  believe  I 

care  for  you.     There's  only  one  way  to  show  him 

—  that  is,  if  we  do  care.     In  one  month  he  would 

be  sending  for  us  back.     Then  we  could  come,  and 

you  would  take  your  right  place  here,  and  be  some- 

43 


THE   DESERT  AND  THE   SOWN 

body.  You  would  not  eat  in  the  kitchen,  then. 
Have  n't  you  been  like  a  son  to  him  ?  And  why 
should  n't  he  own  it  ?  " 

"  But  if  he  won't  ?  Suppose  he  don't  send  for 
us  to  come  back  ?  " 

"  Then  you  could  strike  out  for  yourself.  What 
was  Tom  Madden,  before  he  went  away  to  Colo 
rado,  or  somewhere  —  where  was  it  ?  And  now 
everybody  stops  to  shake  hands  with  him  ;  —  he  's 
as  much  of  a  man  as  anybody.  If  you  could  make 
a  little  money.  That 's  the  proof  he  wants.  If  you 
were  rich,  you  'd  be  all  right  with  him.  You  know 
that !  " 

"  I  'd  hate  to  think  it.  But  I  '11  never  be  rich. 
Put  that  out  of  your  mind,  Emmy.  It  don't  run 
in  the  blood.  I  don't  come  of  a  money-making 
breed." 

"  What  a  silly  thing  to  say !  Of  course,  if  you 
don't  believe  you  can,  you  can't.  Who  has  made 
the  money  here  for  the  last  ten  years  ?  " 

"  It  was  his  capital  done  it.  It  ain't  hard  to 
make  money  after  you  've  scraped  the  first  few 
thousands  together.  But  it 's  the  first  thousand 
that  costs." 

"  How  much  have  you  got  ahead  ?  " 

Adam  answered  awkwardly,  "  Eleven  hundred 
44 


A  WELL   IN  HIS  OWN  COURT 

and  sixty  odd."  He  did  not  like  to  talk  of  money 
to  the  girl  who  was  the  prayer,  the  inspiration,  of 
his  life.  It  hurt  him  to  be  questioned  by  her  in 
this  sordid  way. 

"  You  earned  it  all,  did  n't  you  ?  " 

"  I  've  took  no  risks.  Here  was  my  home.  He 
give  me  the  chance  and  he  showed  me  how.  And 
—  he 's  your  father.  I  don't  like  to  talk  about  his 
money,  nor  about  my  own,  to  you." 

"  Oh,  you  are  good,  good  !  Nobody  knows  ! 
But  it 's  all  wasted  if  you  have  n't  got  any  push  — 
anything  inside  of  yourself  that  makes  people  know 
what  you  are.  I  wish  I  could  put  into  you  some  of 
my  fury  that  I  feel  when  things  get  in  my  way ! 
You  have  held  yourself  in  too  long.  You  can't  — 
can't  love  a  girl,  and  be  so  careful  —  like  a  mother. 
Don't  you  understand  ?  " 

"  Stop  right  there,  Emmy !  You  need  n't  push 
no  harder.  I  can  let  go  whenever  you  say  so. 
But  —  do  you  understand,  little  girl  ?  Man  and 
wife  it  will  have  to  be." 

Emmy  did  not  shrink  at  the  words.  Her  face 
grew  set,  her  dark  eyes  full  of  mystery  fixed  them 
selves  on  the  slow-moving  ice-floe  grinding  along 
the  shore. 

"  I  know,"  she  assented  slowly. 
45 


THE   DESERT   AND   THE   SOWN 

"  I  can't  give  you  no  farm,  nor  horses  and  car 
riages,  nor  help  in  the  kitchen.  It 's  bucklin' 
right  down  with  our  bare  hands  —  me  outside  and 
you  in  ?  And  you  only  eighteen.  See  what  little 
hands  -  If  I  could  do  it  all !  " 

"  Your  promise  is  broken,"  she  whispered.  "  I 
made  you  break  it.  You  will  have  to  tell  him 
now,  or  —  we  must  go." 

"  So  be !  "  said  Adam  solemnly.  "  And  God 
do  so  to  me  and  more  also,  if  I  have  to  hurt  my 
little  girl,  —  Emmy  —  wife  !  " 

He  folded  her  in  his  great  arms  clumsily  —  the 
man  she  had  said  was  like  a  mother.  He  was  almost 
as  ignorant  as  she,  and  more  hopeful  than  he  had 
dared  to  seem,  as  to  their  worldly  chances.  But 
the  love  he  had  for  her  told  him  it  was  not  love 
that  made  her  so  bold.  The  first  touch  of  such 
love  as  his  would  have  made  her  fear  him  as  he 
feared  her.  And  the  subtle  pain  of  this  instinc 
tive  knowledge,  together  with  that  broken  promise, 
shackled  the  wings  of  his  great  joy.  It  was  not 
as  he  had  hoped  to  win  the  crown  of  life. 

Paul,  it  may  be  supposed,  had  never  liked  to 

think  of  his  mother's  elopement.     It  had  been  the 

one  hard  point  to  get  over  in  his  conception  of  his 

father,  but  he  could  never  have  explained  it  by 

46 


A  WELL  IN  HIS  OWN   COURT 

such  a  scene  as  this.  It  would  have  hampered 
him  terribly  in  his  tale  had  he  dreamed  of  it.  He 
passed  over  the  unfortunate  incident  with  a  ro 
mancer's  touch,  and  dwelt  upon  his  grandfather's 
bitter  resentment  which  he  resented  as  the  son  of 
his  mother's  choice.  The  Van  Eltens  and  Broder- 
icks  all  fared  hardly  at  the  hands  of  their  legatee. 

It  was  not  only  in  the  person  of  a  hireling  who 
had  abused  his  trust  that  Abraham  had  felt  him 
self  outraged.  There  were  old  neighborhood  spites 
and  feuds  going  back,  dividing  blood  from  blood 
—  even  brothers  of  the  same  blood.  There  was 
trouble  between  him  and  his  brother  Jacob,  of  New 
York,  dating  from  the  settlement  of  their  father's, 
Broderick  Van  Elten's,  estate  ;  and  no  one  knows 
what  besides  that  was  private  and  personal  may 
have  entered  into  it.  It  was  years  since  they  had 
met,  but  Jacob  kept  well  abreast  of  his  brother's 
misfortunes.  A  bachelor  himself,  with  no  children 
to  lose  or  to  quarrel  with,  it  was  not  displeasing 
to  him  to  hear  of  the  breaks  in  his  brother's  house 
hold. 

"  What,  what,  what !     The  last  one  left  him,  — 

run  off  with  one  of  his  men !     What  a  fool  the 

man  must  be.     Can't  he  look  after  his  women  folks 

better  than  that  ?     Better  have  lost  her  with  the 

47 


THE   DESERT  AND   THE   SOWN 

others.  Two  boys,  and  Chrissy,  and  the  girl  — 
and  now  the  last  girl  gone  off  with  his  hired  man. 
Poor  Chrissy !  Guess  she  had  about  enough  of  it. 
Things  have  come  out  pretty  much  even,  after  all ! 
There  was  more  love  and  lickin's  wasted  on  Abe. 
Father  was  proudest  of  him,  but  he  could  n't  break 
him.  Hi !  but  I  've  crawled  under  the  woodshed 
to  hear  him  yell,  and  father  would  tan  him  with  a 
raw-hide,  but  he  could  n't  break  him  ;  could  n't  get 
a  sound  out  of  him.  Big,  and  hard,  and  tough  — 
Chrissy  thought  she  knew  a  man ;  she  thought  she 
took  the  best  one." 

With  slow,  cold  spite  Jacob  had  tracked  his 
brother's  path  in  life  through  its  failures.  Jacob 
had  no  failures,  and  no  life. 


48 


DISINHERITED 

PROUD  little  Emmy,  heiress  no  longer,  had 
put  her  spirit  into  her  farm-hand  and  incited 
him  to  the  first  rebellion  of  his  life.  They  crossed 
the  river  at  night,  poling  through  floating  ice,  and 
climbed  aboard  one  of  those  great  through  trains 
whose  rushing  thunder  had  made  the  girlish  heart 
so  often  beat.  This  was  long  before  the  West 
Shore  Line  was  built.  Neither  of  them  had  ever 
seen  the  inside  of  a  Pullman  sleeper.  Emmy 
could  count  the  purchased  meals  she  had  eaten  in 
her  life  ;  she  had  never  slept  in  a  hotel  or  hired 
lodging  till  after  her  marriage.  Hardly  any  one 
could  be  so  provincial  in  these  days. 

Adam  Bogardus  was  a  plodder  in  the  West  as 
he  had  been  in  the  East.  He  was  an  honest  man, 
and  he  was  wise  enough  not  to  try  to  be  a  shrewd 
one.  He  tried  none  of  the  short-cuts  to  a  fortune. 
Hard  work  suited  him  best,  and  no  work  was  too 
hard  for  his  iron  strength  and  patient  resolution. 
49 


THE  DESEKT  AND  THE   SOWN 

But  it  broke  the  spirit  of  a  man  in  him  to  see 
his  young  wife's  despair.  Poverty  frightened  and 
quelled  her.  The  deep-rooted  security  of  her  old 
home  was  something  she  missed  every  day  of  her 
makeshift  existence.  It  was  degradation  to  live 
in  "  rooms,"  or  a  room ;  to  move  for  want  of 
means  to  pay  the  rent.  She  pined  for  the  good 
food  she  had  been  used  to.  Her  health  suffered 
through  anxiety  and  hard  work.  She  was  too 
proud  to  complain,  but  the  sight  of  her  dumb  un- 
acceptance  of  what  had  come  to  her  through  him 
undoubtedly  added  the  last  straw  to  her  husband's 
mental  strain. 

"  It  is  hard  for  me  to  realize  it  as  I  once  did," 
said  Paul,  as  the  story  paused.  "  You  make  trag 
edy  a  dream.  But  there  is  a  deep  vein  of  tragedy 
in  our  blood.  And  my  theory  is  that  it  always 
crops  out  in  families  where  it 's  the  keynote,  as  it 
were." 

"  Never  mind,  you  old  care-taker !  We  Middle- 
tons  carry  sail  enough  to  need  a  ton  or  two  of  lead 
in  our  keel." 

"  But,  you  understand  ?  "  — 

"I  understand  the  distinction  between  what 
I  call  your  good  blood,  and  the  sort  of  blood  I 
50 


DISINHERITED 

thought  you  had.     It  explains  a  certain  funny  way 
you  have  with  arms  —  weapons.      Do  you  mind  ?  " 

"  Not  at  all,"  said  Paul  coldly.  "  I  hate  a  weapon. 
I  am  always  ashamed  of  myself  when  I  get  one  in 
my  hand." 

"  You  act  that  way,  dear !  " 

"  God  made  tools  and  the  Devil  made  weapons." 

"  You  are  civil  to  my  father's  profession." 

"  Your  father  is  what  he  is  aside  from  his  pro 
fession." 

"  You  are  quite  mistaken,  Paul.  My  father  and 
his  profession  are  one.  His  sword  is  a  symbol  of 
healing.  The  army  is  the  great  surgeon  of  the 
nation  when  the  time  comes  for  a  capital  operation." 

"  It  grows  harder  to  tell  my  story,"  said  Paul 
gloomily ;  —  "  the  short  and  simple  annals  of  the 
poor." 

"Now  come!  Have  I  been  a  snob  about  my 
father's  profession  ?  " 

"  No ;  but  you  love  it,  naturally.  You  have 
grown  up  with  its  pomp  and  circumstance  around 
you.  You  are  the  history  makers  when  history  is 
most  exciting." 

"  Go  on  with  your  story,  you  proud  little  Dutch 
man  !     When  I  despise  you  for  your  farming  rela 
tives,  you  can  taunt  me  with  my  history  making." 
51 


THE   DESERT  AND  THE   SOWN 

Paul  was  about  two  years  old  when  his  parents 
broke  up  in  the  Wood  River  country  and  came 
south  by  wagon  on  the  old  stage-road  to  Felton. 
Whenever  he  saw  a  "  string-bean  freighter's  "  out 
fit  moving  into  Bisuka,  if  there  was  a  woman  on 
the  driver's  seat,  he  wanted  to  take  off  his  hat  to 
her.  For  so  his  mother  sat  beside  his  father  and 
held  him  in  her  arms  two  hundred  miles  across  the 
Snake  River  desert.  The  stages  have  been  laid  off 
since  the  Oregon  Short  Line  went  through,  but 
there  were  stations  then  all  along  the  road. 

One  night  they  made  camp  at  a  lonely  place  be 
tween  Soul's  Rest  and  Mountain  Home.  Oneman 
Station  it  was  called ;  afterwards  Deadman  Station, 
when  the  keeper's  body  was  found  one  morning 
stiff  and  cold  in  his  bunk.  He  died  in  the  night 
alone.  Emily  Bogardus  had  cause  to  hate  the  man 
when  he  was  living,  and  his  dreary  end  was  long  a 
shuddering  remembrance  to  her,  like  the  answer  to 
an  unforgiving  prayer. 

The  station  was  in  a  hollow  with  bare  hills 
around,  rising  to  the  highest  point  of  that  rolling 
plain  country.  The  mountains  sink  below  the 
plain,  only  their  white  tops  showing.  It  was 
October.  All  the  wild  grass  had  been  eaten  close 
for  miles  on  both  sides  of  the  road,  but  over  a  gap 
52 


DISINHERITED 

in  the  Western  divide  was  the  Bruneau  Valley, 
where  the  bell-mare  of  the  team  had  been  raised. 
In  the  night  she  broke  her  hopples  and  struck  out 
across  the  summit  with  the  four  mules  at  her  heels. 
Towards  morning  a  light  snow  fell  and  covered 
their  tracks.  Adam  was  compelled  to  hunt  his 
stock  on  foot ;  the  keeper  refusing  him  a  horse, 
saying  he  had  got  himself  into  trouble  before 
through  being  friendly  with  the  company's  horses. 
He  started  out  across  the  hills,  expecting  that  the 
same  night  would  see  him  back,  and  his  wife  was 
left  in  the  wagon  camp  alone. 

"  I  know  this  story  very  well,"  said  Paul,  "  and 
yet  I  never  heard  it  but  once,  when  mother  decided 
I  was  old  enough  to  know  all.  But  every  word 
was  bitten  into  me  —  especially  this  ugly  part  I 
am  coming  to.  I  wish  it  need  not  be  told,  yet  all 
the  rest  depends  on  it ;  and  that  such  an  experience 
could  come  to  a  woman  like  my  mother  shows  what 
exposure  and  humiliation  lie  in  the  straightest  path 
if  there  is  no  money  to  smooth  the  way.  You  hear 
it  said  that  in  the  West  the  toughest  men  will  be 
cliivalrous  to  a  woman  if  she  is  the  right  sort  of  a 
woman.  I  'm  afraid  that  is  a  romantic  theory  of 
the  Western  man. 

53 


THE   DESERT  AND   THE   SOWN 

"  That  night,  before  his  team  stampeded,  as  he 
sat  by  the  keeper's  fire,  father  had  made  up  his 
mind  that  the  less  they  had  to  do  with  that  man 
the  better.  He  may  have  warned  mother  ;  and 
she,  left  alone  with  the  brute,  did  not  know  the 
wisdom  of  hiding  her  fear  and  loathing  of  him. 
He  may  have  meant  no  more  than  a  low  kind  of 
teasing,  but  her  suffering  was  the  same. 

"  Father  did  not  come.  She  dared  not  leave 
the  camp.  She  knew  no  place  to  go  to,  and  in  his 
haste,  believing  he  would  soon  be  with  her  again, 
he  had  taken  all  their  little  stock  of  funds.  But 
he  had  left  her  his  gun,  and  with  this  within  reach 
of  her  hand  in  the  shelter  of  the  wagon  hood, 
without  fire  and  without  cooked  food,  she  kept  a 
sleepless  watch. 

"  The  stages  came  and  went ;  help  was  within 
sound  of  her  voice,  but  she  dared  make  no  sign. 
The  passengers  were  few  at  that  season,  always 
men,  on  the  best  of  terms  with  the  keeper.  He 
had  threatened  —  well,  no  matter  —  such  a  threat 
as  a  more  sophisticated  woman  would  have  smiled 
at.  She  was  simple,  but  she  was  not  weak.  It 
was  a  moral  battle  between  them.  There  were 
hours  when  she  held  him  by  the  power  of  her  eye 
alone ;  she  conquered,  but  it  nearly  killed  her. 
54 


DISINHERITED 

"  One  morning  a  man  jumped  down  from  the 
stage  whose  face  she  knew.  He  had  recognized 
my  father's  outfit  and  he  came  to  speak  to  her, 
amazed  to  find  her  in  that  place  alone.  There  was 
no  need  to  put  her  worst  fear  into  words  ;  he  knew 
the  keeper.  He  made  the  best  he  could  of  father's 
detention,  but  he  assured  her,  as  she  knew  too 
well,  that  she  could  not  wait  for  him  there.  He 
was  on  his  way  East,  and  he  took  us  with  him  as 
far  as  Mountain  Home.  To  this  day  she  be 
lieves  that  if  Bud  Granger  had  led  the  search,  my 
father  would  have  been  found ;  but  he  went  East 
to  sell  his  cattle,  the  snows  set  in,  and  the  search 
party  came  straggling  home.  The  man,  Granger, 
had  left  a  letter  of  explanation,  inclosing  one  from 
mother  to  father,  with  the  keeper.  He  bribed  and 
frightened  him,  but  for  years  she  used  to  agonize 
over  a  fear  that  father  had  come  back  and  the 
keeper  had  withheld  the  letter  and  belied  her  to 
him  with  some  devilish  story  that  maddened  him 
and  drove  him  from  her.  Such  a  fancy  might 
have  come  out  of  her  mental  state  at  that  time.  I 
believe  that  Granger  left  the  letter  simply  to  satisfy 
her.  He  must  have  believed  my  father  was  dead. 
He  could  not  have  conceived  of  a  man's  being  lost 
in  that  broad  country  at  that  season  ;  but  my  father 
55 


THE   DESERT   AND   THE   SOWN 

was  a  man  of  hills  and  farms,  all  small,  compact. 
The  plains  were  another  planet  to  him. 

"  The  letter  was  found  in  the  keeper's  clothing 
after  his  death  ;  no  one  ever  came  to  claim  it  of 
his  successor.  Somewhere  in  this  great  wilderness 
a  tired  man  found  rest.  What  would  we  not  give 
if  we  knew  where  ! 

"  And  she  worked  in  a  hotel  in  Mountain  Home. 
Can  you  imagine  it !  Then  Christine  was  born 
and  the  multiplied  strain  overcame  her.  Strangers 
took  care  of  her  children  while  she  lay  between 
life  and  death.  She  had  been  silent  about  herself 
and  her  past,  but  they  found  a  letter  from  one  of 
her  old  schoolmates  asking  about  teachers'  salaries 
in  the  West,  and  they  wrote  to  her  begging  her  to 
make  known  my  mother's  condition  to  her  rela 
tives  if  any  were  living.  At  length  came  a  letter 
from  grandfather  —  characteristic  to  the  last.  The 
old  home  was  there,  for  her  and  for  her  children, 
but  no  home  for  the  traitor,  as  he  called  father. 
She  must  give  him  up  even  to  his  name.  No 
Bogardus  could  inherit  of  a  Van  Elten. 

"  She  had  not  then  lost  all  hope  of  father's  re 
turn,  and  she  never  forgave  her  father  for  trying  to 
buy  her  back  for  the  price  of  what  she  considered 
her  birthright.  She  settled  down  miserably  to  earn 
56 


DISINHERITED 

bread  for  her  children.  Then,  when  hope  and 
pride  were  crushed  in  her,  and  faith  had  nothing 
left  to  cling  to,  there  came  a  letter  from  Uncle 
Jacob,  the  bachelor,  who  had  bided  his  time.  Out 
of  the  division  in  his  brother's  house  he  proposed 
to  build  up  his  own ;  just  as  he  would  step  in  and 
buy  depreciated  bonds  to  hold  them  for  a  rise.  He 
offered  her  a  home  and  maintenance  during  his 
lifetime,  and  his  estate  for  herself  and  her  chil 
dren  when  he  was  through.  There  were  no  condi 
tions  referring  to  our  father,  but  it  was  understood 
that  she  should  give  up  her  own.  This,  mainly,  to 
spite  his  brother,  yet  under  all  there  was  an  old 
man's  plea.  She  felt  she  could  make  the  obliga 
tion  good,  though  there  might  not  be  much  love  on 
either  side.  Perhaps  it  came  later  ;  but  I  remem 
ber  enough  of  that  time  to  believe  that  her  chil 
dren's  future  was  dearly  paid  for.  Grandfather 
died  alone,  in  the  old  rat-ridden  house  up  the  Hud 
son.  He  left  no  will,  to  every  one's  surprise.  It 
might  have  been  his  negative  way  of  owning  his 
debt  to  nature  at  the  last. 

"  That  is  how  we  came  to^  be  rich ;  and  no  one 
detects  in  us  now  the  crime  of  those  early  strug 
gles.     But  my  father  was  a  hired  man ;  and  my 
mother  has  done  every  menial  thing  with  those  soft 
57 


THE   DESERT   AND   THE   SOWN 

hands  of  hers."  A  softer  one  was  folded  in  his 
own.  Its  answering  clasp  was  loyal  and  strong. 

"  Is  this  the  story  you  had  not  the  courage  to 
tell  me?" 

"  This  is  the  story  I  had  the  courage  to  tell  you 
—  not  any  too  soon,  perhaps  you  think  ?  " 

"  And  do  you  think  it  needed  courage  ?  " 

"  The  question  is  what  you  think.  What  are 
we  to  do  with  Uncle  Jacob's  money?  Go  off  by 
ourselves  and  have  a  good  time  with  it  ?  " 

"  We  will  not  decide  to-night,"  said  Moya,  ten 
derly  subdued.  But,  though  the  story  had  inter 
ested  and  touched  her,  as  accounting  for  her  lover's 
saddened,  conscience-ridden  youth,  it  was  no  argu 
ment  against  teaching  him  what  youth  meant  in 
her  philosophy.  The  differences  were  explained, 
but  not  abolished. 

"  It  was  spite  money,  remember,  not  love 
money,"  he  continued,  reverting  to  his  story.  "  It 
purchased  my  mother's  compliance  to  one  who 
hated  her  father,  who  forced  her  to  listen,  year 
after  year,  to  bitter,  unnatural  words  against  him. 
I  am  not  sure  but  it  kept  her  from  him  at  the  last ; 
for  if  Uncle  Jacob  had  not  stepped  in  and  made 
her  his,  I  can't  help  thinking  she  would  have  found 
somehow  a  way  to  the  soft  place  in  his  heart. 
58 


DISINHERITED 

Something  good  ought  to  be  done  with  that  money 
to  redeem  its  history." 

"  You  must  not  be  morbid,  Paul." 

"  That  sounds  like  mother,"  said  Paul,  smiling. 
"  She  is  always  jealous  for  our  happiness  ;  because 
she  lost  her  own,  I  think,  and  paid  so  heavily  for 
ours.  She  prizes  pleasure  and  success,  even  worldly 
success,  for  us." 

"  I  don't  blame  her  !  "  cried  Moya. 

"  No  ;  of  course  not.  But  you  must  n't  both  be 
against  me,  and  Chrissy,  too.  She  is  so,  uncon 
sciously  ;  she  does  not  know  the  pull  there  is  on 
me,  through  knowing  things  she  does  n't  dream  of, 
and  that  I  can  never  forget." 

"  No,"  said  Moya.  "  I  am  sure  she  is  perfectly 
unconscious.  We  exchanged  biographies  at  school, 
and  there  was  nothing  at  all  like  this  in  hers. 
Why  was  she  never  told  ?  " 

"  She  has  always  been  too  strained,  too  excita 
ble.  Every  least  incident  is  an  emotion  with  her. 
When  she  laughs,  her  laugh  is  like  a  cry.  Have  n't 
you  noticed  that  ?  Startle  her,  and  her  eyes  are 
the  very  eyes  of  fear.  Mother  was  wise,  I  think, 
not  to  pour  those  old  sorrows  into  her  little  fragile 
cup." 

"  So  she  emptied  them  all  into  yours  !  " 
59 


THE   DESERT  AND  THE   SOWN 

"  That  was  my  right,  of  the  elder  and  stronger. 
I  would  n't  have  missed  the  knowledge  of  our  be 
ginnings  for  the  world.  What  a  prosperous  fool 
and  ass  I  might  have  made  of  myself !  " 

"  Morbid  again,"  said  Moya.  "  You  belong  to 
your  own  day  and  generation.  You  might  as  well 
wear  country  shoes  and  clothes  because  your  father 
wore  them." 

"  Still,  if  we  have  such  a  thing  in  this  country 
as  class,  then  you  and  I  do  not  belong  to  the  same 
class  except  by  virtue  of  Uncle  Jacob's  money. 
Confess  you  are  glad  I  am  a  Bevier  and  a  Broder- 
ick  and  a  Van  Elten,  as  well  as  a  Bogardus." 

"  I  shall  confess  nothing  of  the  kind.  Now  you 
do  talk  like  a  nouveauf  Paul,  dear,"  said  Moya, 
with  her  caressing  eyes  on  his  —  they  had  paused 
under  the  lamp  at  the  top  of  the  steps  —  "I  think 
your  father  must  have  been  a  very  good  man." 

"  All  our  fathers  were,"  Paul  averred,  smiling 
at  her  earnestness. 

"  Yes,  but  yours  in  particular  ;  because  you  are 
an  angel ;  and  your  mother  is  quite  human,  is  she 
not  ?  —  almost  as  human  as  I  am  ?  That  carriage 
of  the  head,  —  if  that  does  not  mean  the  world ! "  — 

"  She  has  needed  all  her  pride." 

"  I  don't  object  to  pride,  myself,"  said  the  girl, 
60 


DISINHERITED 

"  but  you  dwell  so  upon  her  humiliations.     I  see 
no  such  record  in  her  face." 

"  She  has  had  much  to  hide,  you  must  remem 
ber." 

"  Well,  she  can  hide  things  ;  but  one's  self  must 
escape  sometimes.  What  has  become  of  little 
Emily  Van  Elten  who  ran  away  with  her  father's 
hired  man  ?  What  has  become  of  the  freighter's 
wife?" 

"  She  is  all  mother  now.  She  brought  us  back 
to  the  world,  and  for  our  sakes  she  has  learned  to 
take  her  place  in  it.  Herself  she  has  buried." 

"  Yes  ;  but  which  is  —  was  herself? "' 

"  And  you  cannot  see  her  story  in  her  face  ?  " 

"  Not  that  story." 

"Not  the  crushing  reserve,  the  long  suspense, 
the  silence  of  a  sorrow  that  even  her  children  could 
not  share  ?  " 

"  I  know  her  silence.  Your  mother  is  a  most 
reticent  woman.  But  is  she  now  the  woman  of 
that  story?" 

"  I  don't  understand  you  quite,"  said  Paul. 
"  How  much  are  we  ourselves  after  we  have  passed 
through  fires  of  grief,  and  been  recast  under  the 
pressure  of  circumstances  !  She  was  that  woman 
once." 

61 


THE   DESERT  AND   THE   SOWN 

"  The  saddest  part  of  the  story  to  me  is,  that 
your  father,  who  loved  her  so,  and  worked  so  hard 
for  his  family,  should  have  served  you  all  the  bet 
ter  by  his  death." 

"  Oh,  don't  say  that,  dear !  Who  knows  what 
is  best  ?  But  one  thing  we  do  know.  The  sorrow 
that  cut  my  mother's  life  in  two  brought  you  and 
me  together.  It  rent  the  stratum  on  which  I  was 
born  and  raised  it  to  the  level  of  yours,  my  lady  !  " 

"  I  shall  not  forget,"  whispered  Moya  with  bliss 
ful  irony,  "  that  you  are  the  Poor  Man's  son  !  " 


62 


VI 

AN  APPEAL  TO  NATURE 

autumn  days  were  shortening  impercepti- 
JL  bly  and  the  sunsets  had  gained  an  almost 
articulate  splendor  :  cloud  calling  unto  cloud,  the 
west  horizon  signaling  to  the  east,  and  answering 
again,  while  the  mute  dark  circle  of  hills  sat 
like  a  council  of  chiefs  with  their  blankets  drawn 
over  their  heads.  Soon  those  blankets  would  be 
white  with  snow. 

Behind  the  Post  where  the  hills  climb  toward  the 
Cottonwood  Creek  divide,  there  is  a  little  canon 
which  at  sunset  is  especially  inviting.  It  hastens 
twilight  by  at  least  an  hour  during  midsummer, 
and  in  autumn  it  leads  up  a  stairway  of  shadow 
to  the  great  spectacle  of  the  day  —  the  day's  de 
parture  from  the  hills. 

The  canon  has  its  companion  rivulet  always  com 
ing  down  to  meet  the  stage-road  going  up.  As  this 
road  is  the  only  outlet  hillward  for  all  the  life  of  the 
plain,  and  as  the  tendency  of  every  valley  popula- 
63 


THE  DESERT  AND   THE   SOWN 

tion  is  to  climb,  one  thinks  of  it  as  a  way  out  rather 
than  a  way  in.  Higher  up,  the  stage-road  becomes 
a  pass  cut  through  a  wall  of  splintered  cliffs  ;  and 
here  it  leads  its  companion,  the  brook,  a  wild  dance 
over  boulders,  and  under  culverts  of  fallen  rock. 
At  last  it  emerges  on  what  is  called  The  Summit ; 
and  between  are  green,  deep  valleys  where  the  little 
ranches,  fields  and  fences  and  houses,  seem  to  have 
slid  down  to  the  bottom  and  lie  there  at  rest. 

A  party  of  young  riders  from  the  post  had  gone 
up  this  road  one  evening,  and  two  had  come  down, 
laughing  and  talking ;  but  the  other  two  remained 
in  the  circle  of  light  that  rested  on  the  summit. 
From  where  they  sat  in  the  dry  grass  they  could 
hear  a  hollow  sound  of  moving  feet  as  the  cattle 
wandered  down  through  folds  of  the  hills,  seeking 
the  willow  copses  by  the  water.  On  the  breast  of 
her  habit  Moya  wore  the  blossoms  of  the  wild  even 
ing  primrose,  which  in  this  region  flowers  till  the 
coming  of  frost.  They  had  been  gathered  for  her 
on  the  way  up,  and  as  she  had  waited  for  them, 
sitting  her  horse  in  silence,  the  brown  owls  gurgled 
and  hooted  overhead  from  nest  to  nest  in  the  cran 
nies  of  the  rocks. 

"  You  need  not  hold  the  horses,"  she  commanded, 
in  her  fresh  voice.  "  Throw  my  bridle  over  your 
64 


AN  APPEAL   TO  NATURE 

saddle  pommel  and  yours  over  mine.  —  There ! " 
she  said,  watching  the  horses  as  they  shuffled  about 
interlinked.  "  That  is  like  half  the  marriages  in 
this  world.  They  don't  separate  and  they  don't  go 
astray,  but  they  don't  get  anywhere  !  " 

"  I  have  been  thinking  of  those  *  two  in  the 
Garden,'  "  mused  Paul,  resting  his  dark,  abstracted 
eyes  on  her.  "  Whether  or  no  your  humble  servant 
has  a  claim  to  unchallenged  bliss  in  this  world, 
there  's  no  doubt  about  your  claim.  If  my  plans 
interfere,  I  must  take  myself  out  of  the  way." 

"  Oh,  you  funny  old  croaker  !  "  laughed  the  girl. 
"  Take  yourself  out  of  the  way,  indeed !  Have  n't 
you  chosen  me  to  show  you  the  way  ?  " 

"  Moya,  Moya !  "  said  Paul  in  a  smothered  voice. 

"  I  know  what  you  are  thinking.  But  stop  it !  " 
she  held  one  of  her  crushed  blossoms  to  his  lips. 
"  What  was  this  made  for  ?  Why  has  n't  it  some 
work  to  do  ?  Is  n't  it  a  skulker  —  blooming  here 
for  only  a  night  ?  " 

"  '  Ripen,  fall,  and  cease  ! '"  Paul  murmured. 

"  How  much  more  am  I  —  are  you,  then  ?  The 
sum  of  us  may  amount  to  something,  if  we  mind 
our  own  business  and  keep  step  with  each  other, 
and  finish  one  thing  before  we  begin  the  next.  I 
will  not  be  in  a  hurry  about  being  good.  Good- 
65 


THE   DESERT  AND   THE   SOWN 

ness  can  take  care  of  itself.  What  you  need  is  to 
be  happy  !  And  it 's  my  first  duty  to  make  you 
so." 

"  God  knows  what  bliss  it  would  be." 

"  Don't  say  '  would  be.'  " 

"  God  knows  it  is  !  " 

"  Then  hush  and  be  thankful !  "  There  was  a 
long  hush.  They  heard  the  far,  faint  notes  of 
a  bugle  sounding  from  the  Post. 

"  Lights  out,"  said  Moya.     "  We  must  go." 

"  You  have  n't  told  me  yet  where  our  Garden  is 
to  be,"  he  said. 

"  I  will  tell  you  on  the  way  home." 

When  they  had  come  down  into  the  neighbor 
hood  of  ranches,  and  Bisuka's  lights  were  twin 
kling  below  them,  she  asked :  "  Who  lives  now  in 
the  grandfather's  house  on  the  Hudson  ?  " 

"  The  farmer,  Chauncey  Dunlop." 

"  Is  there  any  other  house  on  the  place  ?  " 

"  Yes.  Mother  built  a  new  one  on  the  Ridge 
some  years  ago." 

"  What  sort  of  a  house  is  it  ?  " 

"  It  was  called  a  good  house  once ;    but  now 

it 's  rather  everything  it  should  n't  be.     It  was  one 

of  the  few  rash  things  mother  ever  did ;  build  a 

house  for  her  children  while  they  were  children. 

66 


AN  APPEAL  TO  NATURE 

Now  she  will  not  change  it.  She  says  we  shall 
build  for  ourselves,  how  and  where  we  please. 
Stone  Ridge  is  her  shop.  Of  course,  if  Chrissy 
liked  it  —  But  Chrissy  considers  it  a '  hole.'  Mo 
ther  goes  up  there  and  indulges  in  secret  orgies  of 
economy  ;  one  man  in  the  stable,  one  in  the  gar 
den  —  '  Economy  has  its  pleasures  for  all  healthy 
minds.'  " 

"  Economy  is  as  delicious  as  bread  and  butter 
after  too  much  candy.  I  should  love  to  go  up  to 
Stone  Ridge  and  wear  out  my  old  clothes.  Did 
any  one  tell  me  that  place  would  some  day  be 
yours  ?  " 

"  It  will  be  my  wife's  on  the  day  we  are  mar 
ried." 

"That  is  where  your  wife,  sir,  would  like  to 
live." 

"  It  is  a  stony  Garden,  dear  !  The  summer  peo 
ple  have  their  places  nearer  the  river.  Our  land 
lies  back,  with  no  view  but  hills.  For  one  who  has 
the  world  before  her  where  to  choose,  it  strikes  me 
she  has  picked  out  a  very  humble  Paradise." 

"  Did  you  think  my  idea  was  to  travel  —  a  poor 
army  girl  who  spends  her  life  in  trunks  ?  Do  we 
ever  buy  a  book  or  frame  a  picture  without  think 
ing  of  our  next  move  ?  As  for  houses,  who  am  I 
67 


THE   DESERT  AND  THE   SOWN 

that  I  should  be  particular  ?  In  the  Army's  House 
are  many  mansions,  but  none  that  we  can  call  our 
own.  Oh,  I  'm  very  primitive  ;  I  have  the  savage 
instinct  to  gather  sticks  and  stones,  and  get  a  roof 
over  my  head  before  winter  sets  in." 

To  such  a  speech  as  this  there  was  but  one  obvi 
ous  answer,  as  she  rode  at  his  side,  her  appealing 
slenderness  within  reach  of  his  arm.  It  did  not 
matter  what  thousands  he  proposed  to  spend  upon 
the  roof  that  should  cover  her  ;  it  was  the  same  as 
if  they  were  planning  a  hut  of  tules  or  a  burrow 
in  the  snow. 

"  It  is  a  poor  man's  country,"  he  said ;  "  stony 
hillsides,  stony  roads  lined  with  stone  fences.  The 
chief  crop  of  the  country  is  ice  and  stone.  In  one 
of  my  grandfather's  fields  there  is  a  great  cairn 
which  Adam  Bogardus,  they  say,  picked  up,  stone 
by  stone,  with  his  bare  hands,  and  carted  there 
when  he  was  fourteen  years  old.  We  will  build 
them  into  the  walls  of  our  new  house  for  a  bless- 
ing." 

"  No,"  said  Moya.  "  We  will  let  sleeping  stones 
lie  I  " 


68 


VII 

MARKING  TIME 

THERE  was  impatience  at  the  garrison  for 
news  that  the  hunters  had  started.  Every 
day's  delay  at  Challis  meant  an  abridgment  of  the 
bridegroom's  leave,  and  the  wedding  was  now  but 
a  fortnight  away.  It  began  to  seem  preposterous 
that  he  should  go  at  all,  and  the  colonel  was  an 
noyed  with  himself  for  his  enthusiasm  over  the 
plan  in  the  first  place.  Mrs.  Bogardus's  watch 
fulness  of  dates  told  the  story  of  her  thoughts,  but 
she  said  nothing. 

"  Mamsie  is  restless,"  said  Christine,  putting  an 
arm  around  her  mother's  solid  waist  and  giving 
her  a  tight  little  hug  apropos  of  nothing.  "  I  be 
lieve  it 's  another  case  of  '  mail-time  fever.'  The 
colonel  says  it  comes  on  with  Moya  every  after 
noon  about  First  Sergeant's  call.  But  Moya  is 
cunning.  She  goes  off  and  pretends  she  isn't 
listening  for  the  bugle." 

"  *  First  Sergeant  or  Second,'  it 's  all  one  to 
69 


THE   DESERT   AND   THE   SOWN 

me,"  said  Mrs.  Bogardus.  "  I  never  know  one 
call  from  another,  except  when  the  gun  goes 
off." 

"  Mamsie  !  '  When  the  gun  goes  off  ! '  What  a 
civilian  way  of  talking.  You  are  not  getting  on 
at  all  with  your  military  training.  Now  let  me 
give  you  some  useful  information.  In  two  seconds 
the  bugle  will  call  the  first  sergeant  —  of  each 
company  —  to  the  adjutant's  office,  and  there  he  '11 
get  the  mail  for  his  men.  The  orderly  trumpeter 
will  bring  it  to  the  houses  on  the  line,  and  the 
colonel's  orderly  —  beautiful  creature !  There  he 
goes !  How  I  wish  we  could  take  him  home  with 
us  and  have  him  in  our  front  hall.  Fancy  the 
feelings  of  the  maids !  And  the  rage  on  the  noble 
brow  of  Parkins  —  awful  Parkins.  I  should  like 
to  give  his  pride  a  bump." 

Mother  and  daughter  were  pacing  the  colo 
nel's  veranda,  behind  a  partial  screen  of  rose 
vines  —  October  vines  fast  shedding  their  leaves. 
Every  breeze  shook  a  handful  down,  which  the 
women's  skirts  swept  with  them  as  they  walked. 
Mrs.  Bogardus  turned  and  clasped  Christine's  arm 
above  the  elbow ;  through  the  thin  sleeve  she  could 
feel  its  cool  roundness.  It  was  a  soft,  small,  un- 
muscular  arm,  that  had  never  borne  its  own  bur- 
70 


MARKING  TIME 

dens,  to  say  nothing  of  a  share  in  the  burdens  of 
others. 

"  Get  your  jacket,"  said  the  mother.  "  There 
is  a  chill  in  the  air." 

"  There  is  no  chill  in  me,"  laughed  Christine. 
"  You  know,  mamsie,  you  are  n't  a  girl.  I  should 
simply  die  in  those  awful  things  that  you  wear. 
Did  you  ever  know  such  a  hot  house  as  the  colonel 
keeps ! " 

"  The  rooms  are  small,  and  the  colonel  is  — 
impulsive,"  Mrs.  Bogardus  added  with  a  smile. 
"  There  is  something  very  like  him  about  his  fire- 
making.  I  should  know  by  the  way  he  puts  on 
wood  that  he  never  would  have  "  —  Mrs.  Bogar 
dus  checked  herself. 

"A  large  bank  account?"  Christine  supplied, 
with  her  quick  wit,  which  was  not  of  a  highly 
sensitive  order. 

"  He  has  a  large  heart,"  said  her  mother. 

"  And  plenty  of  room  for  it,  bless  him  !  The 
slope  of  his  chest  is  like  the  roof  of  a  house. 
The  only  time  I  envy  Moya  is  when  she  lays  her 
head  down  on  it  and  tries  to  meet  her  arms  around 
him  as  if  he  were  a  tree,  and  he  strokes  her  hair 
as  if  his  hand  was  a  bough !  If  ever  I  marry  a 
soldier  he  shall  be  a  colonel  with  a  white  mus- 
71 


THE   DESERT  AND  THE   SOWN 

tache  and  a  burnt-sienna  complexion,  and  a  sword- 
belt  that  measures  —  what  is  the  colonel's  waist- 
measure,  do  you  suppose  ?  " 

Mrs.  Bogardus  listened  to  this  nonsense  with  the 
smile  of  a  silent  woman  who  has  borne  a  child  that 
can  talk.  Moya  had  often  noticed  how  uncritical 
she  was  of  Christine's  "  unruly  member." 

"It  isn't  polite  to  speak  of  waist-measures  to 
middle-aged  persons  like  your  mother  and  the 
colonel,"  she  said  placidly.  "You  like  it  very 
much  out  here  ?  " 

"  Fascinating !  Never  had  such  a  good  time  in 
my  whole  life." 

"  And  you  like  the  West  altogether  ?  Would 
you  like  to  live  here  ?  " 

"  Oh,  if  it  came  to  living,  I  should  want  to  be 
sure  there  was  a  way  out." 

"  There  generally  is  a  way  out  of  most  things. 
But  it  costs  something."  Mrs.  Bogardus  was  so  con 
cise  in  her  speech  as  at  times  to  be  almost  oracular. 

"  Army  people  are  sure  of  their  way  out,"  said 
Christine,  "and  I  guess  they  find  it  costs  some 
thing." 

"  Why  do  they  buy  so  many  books,  I  wonder  ? 
If  I  moved  as  often  as  they  do,  I  'd  have  only  paper 
covers  and  leave  them  behind." 
72 


MARKING   TIME 

*•  You  are  not  a  reader,  mummy.  You  're  a 
business  woman.  You  look  at  everything  from  the 
practical  side." 

"And  if  I  didn't,  who  would?"  Mrs.  Bogar- 
dus  spoke  with  earnestness.  "  We  can't  all  be 
dreamers  like  Paul  or  privileged  persons  like  you. 
There  has  to  be  one  in  every  family  to  say  the 
things  no  one  likes  to  hear  and  do  the  things  no 
body  likes  to  do." 

"  We  are  the  rich  repiners  and  you  are  the  house 
hold  drudge  !  "  Christine  shouted,  laughing  at  her 
own  wit. 

"  Hush,  hush !  "  her  mother  smiled.  "  Don't 
make  so  much  noise." 

"  I  should  like  to  know  who 's  to  be  the  drudge 
in  Paul's  privileged  family.  It  does  n't  strike  me 
it 's  going  to  be  Moya.  And  Paul  only  drudges  for 
people  he  doesn't  know." 

"  Moya  is  a  girl  you  can  expect  anything  of. 
She  is  a  wonderful  mixture  of  opposites.  She  has 
the  Irish  quickness,  and  yet  she  has  learned  to  obey. 
She  has  had  the  freedom  and  the  discipline  of  these 
little  lordly  army  posts.  She  is  one  of  the  few  girls 
of  her  age  who  does  not  measure  everything  from 
her  own  point  of  view." 

"  Is  that  a  dig  at  me,  ma'am  ?  " 
73 


THE   DESERT  AND   THE  SOWN 

At  that  moment  Moya  came  out  upon  the  porch. 
She  was  very  striking  with  the  high  color  and  bril 
liant  eyes  that  mail-time  fever  breeds.  Christine 
looked  at  her  with  freshly  aroused  curiosity,  moved 
by  her  mother's  unwonted  burst  of  praise.  The 
faintest  tinge  of  jealousy  made  her  feel  naughty. 
As  Moya  went  down  the  board  walk,  the  colonel's 
orderly  came  springing  up  the  steps  to  meet  her 
with  the  mail-bag.  He  saluted  and  turned  off  at 
an  angle  down  the  embankment  not  to  present  his 
back  to  the  ladies. 

"  Did  you  see  that !  He  never  raised  his  eyes. 
They  are  like  priests.  You  can't  make  them  look 
at  you."  Moya  looked  at  Christine  in  amazement. 
The  man  himself  might  have  heard  her.  It  was 
not  the  first  time  this  privileged  guest  had  rubbed 
against  garrison  customs  in  certain  directions  hardly 
worth  mentioning.  Moya  hesitated.  Then  she 
laughed  a  little,  and  said :  "  Only  a  raw  recruity 
would  look  at  an  officer's  daughter,  or  any  lady  of 
the  line." 

"  Oh,  you  horrid  little  aristocrat !  Well,  I  look 
at  them,  when  they  are  as  pretty  as  that  one,  and 
I  forgive  them  if  they  look  at  me." 

Moya  turned  and  hovered  over  the  contents  of 
the  mail-bag.  In  the  exercise  of  one  of  her  pre- 
74 


MARKING  TIME 

rogatives,  it  was  her  habit  to  sort  its  contents  be 
fore  delivering  it  at  the  official  door. 

"  All,  all  for  you  !  "  she  offered  a  huge  packet 
of  letters,  smiling,  to  Mrs.  Bogardus.  It  was  faced 
with  one  on  top  in  Paul's  handwriting.  "  All 
but  one,"  she  added,  and  proceeded  to  open  her 
own  much  fatter  one  in  the  same  hand.  She  stood 
reading  it  in  the  hall. 

Mrs.  Bogardus  presently  followed  and  remained 
beside  her.  "Could  I  speak  to  your  father  a 
moment  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Certainly,  I  will  call  him,"  said  Moya. 

"  Wait :  I  hear  him  now."  The  study  door 
opened  and  Colonel  Middleton  joined  them.  Mrs. 
Bogardus  leading  the  way  into  the  sitting-room, 
the  colonel  followed  her,  and  Moya,  not  having 
been  invited,  lingered  in  the  hall. 

"  Well,  have  the  hunters  started  yet  ? "  the 
colonel  inquired  in  his  breezy  voice,  which  made 
you  want  to  open  the  doors  and  windows  to  give  it 
room.  "  Be  seated  !  Be  seated  !  I  hope  you  have 
got  a  long  letter  to  read  me." 

Mrs.  Bogardus  stood  reflecting.  "  The  day  this 
letter  was  mailed  they  got  off  —  only  two  days 
ago,"  she  said.  "  Could  I  reach  them,  Colonel, 
with  a  telegram  ?  " 

75 


THE   DESERT  AND   THE   SOWN 

"  Two  days  ago,"  the  colonel  considered.  "  They 
must  have  made  Yankee  Fork  by  yesterday.  To 
day  they  are  deep  in  the  woods.  No ;  I  should  say 
a  man  on  horseback  would  be  your  surest  telegram. 
Is  it  anything  important  ?  " 

"  Colonel,  I  wish  we  could  call  them  back !  They 
have  gone  off,  it  seems  to  me,  in  a  most  crazy  way 
—  against  the  judgment  of  every  one  who  knows. 
The  guide,  this  man  whom  they  waited  for,  refused, 
it  appears,  to  go  out  again  with  another  party  so 
late  in  the  fall.  But  the  Bowens  were  determined. 
They  insisted  on  making  arrangements  with  an 
other  man.  Then,  when  '  Packer  John,'  they  call 
him,  heard  of  this,  he  went  to  Paul  and  urged  him, 
if  he  could  not  prevent  the  others  from  going,  to 
give  up  the  trip  himself.  The  Bowens  were  very 
much  annoyed  at  his  interference,  and  with  Paul 
for  listening  to  him.  And  Paul,  rather  than  make 
things  unpleasant,  gave  in.  You  know  how  young 
men  are !  What  silly  grounds  are  enough  for 
the  most  serious  decisions  when  it  is  a  question  of 
pride  or  good  faith.  The  Bowens  had  bought  their 
outfit  on  Paul's  assurance  that  he  would  go.  He 
felt  he  could  not  leave  them  in  the  lurch.  On  that, 
the  guide  suddenly  changed  his  mind  and  said  he 
would  go  with  them  sooner  than  see  them  fall  into 
76 


MARKING  TIME 

worse  hands.     They  were,  in  a  way,  committed  to 
the  other  man,  so  they  took  him  along  as  cook  — 
the  whole  thing  done  in  haste,  you  see,  and  un 
pleasant  feelings  all  around.     Do  you  call  that  a 
good  start  for  a  pleasure  trip  ?  " 

"  It 's  very  much  the  way  with  young  troops 
when  they  start  out  —  everything  wrong  end  fore 
most,  everybody  mad  with  everybody  else.  A  day 
in  the  saddle  will  set  their  little  tempers  all  right." 

"  That  is  n't  the  point,"  Mrs.  Bogardus  per 
sisted  gloomily.  As  she  spoke,  the  two  girls  came 
into  the  room  and  stood  listening. 

"  What  is  the  point,  then?"  Christine  demanded. 
"  Moya  has  no  news ;  all  those  pages  and  pages, 
and  nothing  for  anybody  or  about  anybody  !  " 

"  *  Such  an  intolerable  deal  of  sack  to  such  a 
poor  pennyworth  of  bread,' "  the  colonel  quoted, 
smiling  at  Moya's  bloated  envelope. 

"  But  what  do  you  think?  "  Mrs.  Bogardus  re 
called  him.  "  Don't  you  think  it 's  a  mistake  all 
around  ?  " 

"  Not  at  all,  if  they  have  a  good  man.  This  flat- 
footed  fellow,  John,  will  take  command,  as  he 
should.  There  is  no  danger  in  the  woods  at  any 
season  unless  the  party  gets  rattled  and  goes  to 
pieces  for  want  of  a  head." 
77 


THE  DESEET  AND    THE   SOWN 

"  Father  !  "  exclaimed  Moya.  "  You  know  there 
is  danger.  Often,  things  have  happened !  " 

"  Why,  what  could  happen  ?  "  asked  Christine, 
with  wide  eyes. 

"  Many  things  very  interesting  could  happen," 
the  colonel  boasted  cheerfully.  "  That  is  the  ob 
ject  of  the  trip.  You  want  things  to  happen.  It 
is  the  emergency  that  makes  the  man  —  sifts  him, 
and  takes  the  chaff  out  of  him." 

"  Take  the  chaff  out  of  Banks  Bowen,"  Moya 
imprudentty  struck  in,  "  and  what  would  you  have 
left  ?  "  She  had  met  Banks  Bowen  in  New  York. 

"  Tut,  tut !  "  said  the  colonel.  "  Silence,  or  a 
good  word  for  the  absent  —  same  as  the  "  —  The 
colonel  stopped  short. 

"  You  are  so  scornful  about  the  other  men,  now 
you  have  chosen  one  !  "  Christine's  face  turned 
red. 

"  Why,  Chrissy  !  You  would  not  compare  your 
brother  to  those  men  !  Papa,  I  beg  your  pardon  ; 
this  is  only  for  argument." 

"  I  don't  compare  him  ;  but  that 's  not  to  say  all 
the  other  men  are  chaff !  "  Christine  joined  con 
strainedly  in  the  laugh  that  followed  her  speech. 

"  You  need  not  go  fancying  things,  Moya,"  she 
cried,  in  answer  to  a  quizzical  look.  "As  if  I 
78 


MARKING  TIME 

had  n't  known  the  Bowen  boys  since  I  was  so 
high ! " 

"  You  might  know  them  from  the  cradle  to  the 
grave,  my  dear  young  lady,  and  not  know  them  as 
Paul  will,  after  a  week  in  the  woods  with  them." 

The  colonel  had  missed  the  drift  of  the  girls' 
discussion.  He  was  considering,  privately,  whether 
he  had  not  better  send  a  special  messenger  on  the 
young  men's  trail.  His  assurances  to  the  women 
left  a  wide  margin  for  personal  doubt  as  to  the 
prudence  of  the  trip.  Aside  from  the  lateness  of 
the  start,  it  was,  undoubtedly,  an  ill-assorted  com 
pany  for  the  woods.  There  was  a  wide  margin  also 
for  suspense,  as  all  mail  facilities  ceased  at  Chalh's. 


79 


VIII 

A  HUNTER'S  DIARY 

EARLY  in  November,  about  a  week  before  the 
hunters  were  expected  home,  a  packet  came 
addressed  to  Moya.  It  was  a  journal  letter  from 
Paul,  mailed  by  some  returning  prospector  chance 
encountered  in  the  forest  as  the  party  were  going 
in.  Moya  read  it  aloud,  with  asterisks,  to  a  fam 
ily  audience  which  did  not  include  her  father. 

"  To-day,"  one  of  the  first  entries  read,  "  we 
halt  at  Twelve-Mile  Cabin,  the  last  roof  we  shall 
sleep  under.  There  are  pine-trees  near  the  cabin 
cut  off  fifteen  feet  above  the  ground,  felled  in 
winter,  John  tells  us,  at  the  level  of  the  snow  ! 

"  These  cabins  are  all  deserted  now ;  the  tide  of 
prospecting  has  turned  another  way.  The  great 
hills  that  crowd  one  another  up  against  the  sky  are 
so  infested  and  overridden  by  this  enormous  forest- 
growth,  and  the  underbrush  is  so  dense,  it  would 
be  impossible  for  a  '  tenderfoot '  to  gain  any  clear 
80 


A  HUNTER'S   DIARY 

idea  of  his  direction.  I  should  be  a  lost  man  the 
moment  I  ventured  out  of  call.  Woodcraft  must 
be  a  sixth  sense  which  we  lost  with  the  rest  of  our 
Eden  birthright  when  we  strayed  from  innocence, 
when  we  ceased  to  sleep  with  one  ear  on  the  ground, 
and  to  spell  our  way  by  the  moss  on  tree-trunks. 
In  these  solitudes,  as  we  call  them,  ranks  and 
clouds  of  witnesses  rise  up  to  prove  us  deaf  and 
blind.  Busy  couriers  are  passing  every  moment  of 
the  day ;  and  we  do  not  see,  nor  hear,  nor  under 
stand.  We  are  the  stocks  and  stones.  Packer 
John  is  our  only  wood-sharp ;  —  yet  the  last  half 
of  the  name  does  n't  altogether  fit  him.  He  is  a 
one-sided  character,  handicapped,  I  should  say, 
by  some  experience  that  has  humbled  and  per 
plexed  him.  Two  and  two  perhaps  refused  to  make 
four  in  his  account  with  men,  and  he  gave  up  the 
proposition.  And  now  he  consorts  with  trees, 
and  hunts  to  live,  not  to  kill.  He  has  an  imper 
sonal,  out-door  odor  about  him,  such  as  the  clean 
est  animals  have.  I  would  as  soon  eat  out  of  his 
dry,  hard,  cool  hand,  as  from  a  chunk  of  pine- 
bark. 

"  It  is  amusing  to  see  him  with  a  certain  mem 
ber  of  the  party  who  tries  to  be  fresh  with  him. 
He  has  a  disconcerting  eye  when  he  fixes  it  on  a 
81 


THE   DESERT  AND  THE   SOWN 

man,  or  turns  it  away  from  one  who  has  said  a 
coarse  or  a  foolish  thing. 

" '  The  jungle  is  large,'  he  seems  to  say,  '  and 
the  cub  he  is  small.  Let  him  think  and  be  still ! ' ' 

"  Who  is  this  '  certain  member '  who  tries  to 
be  '  fresh  '  ?  "  Christine  inquired  with  perceptible 
warmth. 

"  The  cook,  perhaps,"  said  Moya  prudently. 

"  The  cook  is  n't  a  '  member ' !  —  Well,  can't  you 
go  on,  Moya  ?  Paul  seems  to  need  a  lot  of  edit 
ing."  Moya  had  paused  and  was  glancing  ahead, 
smiling  to  herself  constrainedly. 

"  Is  there  more  disparagement  of  his  comrades  ?  " 
Christine  persisted. 

"  Christine,  be  still !  "  Mrs.  Bogardus  inter 
fered.  "  Moya  ought  to  have  the  first  reading  of  her 
own  letter.  It 's  very  good  of  her  to  let  us  hear  it 
at  all." 

"  Oh  dear,  there  's  no  disparagement.  Quite  the 
contrary !  I  '11  go  on  with  pleasure  if  you  don't 
mind."  Moya  read  hurriedly,  laughing  through  her 
words :  — 

"  '  If  you  were  here, 

(Ah,  if  you  were  here  I) 
You  should  lend  me  an  ear  — 
One  at  the  least 
Of  a  pair  the  prettiest '  — 

82 


A  HUNTER'S   DIARY 

which  is,  within   a  foot    or  two,   the    rhythm  of 

*  Wood  Notes.'     Of  course  you  don't  know  it !  " 

"  This  is  a  gibe  at  me,"  Moya  explained,  "  be 
cause  I  don't  read  Emerson.  '  It  is  the  very 
measure  of  a  marching  chorus,'  he  goes  on  to  say, 

*  where  the  step  is  broken  by  rocks  and  tree-roots ; ' 
—  and  he  is  chanting  it  to  himself  (to  her  it  was 
in  the  original)  as  they  go  in  single  file  through 
these    'haughty    solitudes,    the    twilight    of    the 
gods ! ' " 

"  '  Haughty  solitudes ' !  "  Christine  derided. 

Mrs.  Bogardus  sighed  with  impatience,  and 
Moya's  face  became  set.  "  Well,  here  he  quotes 
again,"  she  haughtily  resumed.  "  Anybody  who  is 
tired  of  this  can  be  excused.  Emerson  won't  mind, 
and  I  'm  sure  Paul  won't !  "  She  looked  a  mute 
apology  to  Paul's  mother,  who  smiled  and  said, 
"  Go  on,  dear.  I  don't  read  Emerson  either,  but  I 
like  him  when  Paul  reads  him  for  me." 

"  Well,  I  warn  you  there  is  an  awful  lot  of  him 
here  !  "  Moya's  voice  was  a  trifle  husky  as  she  read 
on. 

"  Old  as  Jove, 
Old  as  Love  '  "  — 

"  I  thought  Love  was  young ! "  —  Christine  in  a 
whisper  aside. 

83 


THE  DESERT  AND  THE   SOWN 

"'Who  of  me 

Tells  the  pedigree  ? 
Only  the  mountains  old, 
Only  the  waters  cold, 
Only  the  moon  and  stars, 
My  coevals  are.' " 

Moya  sighed,  and  sank  into  prose  again.  "  There 
is  a  gaudy  yellow  moss  in  these  woods  that  flecks 
the  straight  and  mournful  tree-trunks  like  a  wan 
dering  glint  of  sunlight ;  and  there  is  a  crepe-like 
black  moss  that  hangs  funeral  scarfs  upon  the 
boughs,  as  if  there  had  been  a  death  in  the  forest, 
and  the  trees  were  in  line  for  the  burial  proces 
sion.  The  grating  of  our  voices  on  this  supreme 
silence  reminds  one  of  '  Why  will  you  still  be 
talking,  Monsieur  Benedick  ?  —  nobody  marks 
you.' 

"  There  are  silences,  and  again  there  are  whole 
symphonies  of  sound.  The  winds  smites  the  tree- 
tops  over  our  heads,  a  surf-like  roar  comes  up  the 
slope,  and  the  yellow  pine-needles  fall  across  the 
deepest  darks  as  motes  sail  down  a  sunbeam.  One 
wearies  of  the  constant  perpendicular,  always  these 
stiff,  columnar  lines,  varied  only  by  the  melancholy 
incline  where  some  great  pine-chieftain  is  leaning 
to  his  fall  supported  in  the  arms  of  his  comrades, 
or  by  the  tragic  prostration  of  the  '  down  timber ' 
84 


A  HUNTER'S   DIARY 

—  beautiful  straight-cut  English  these  woodsmen 
talk. 

"  Last  evening  John  and  I  sat  by  the  stove  in 
the  men's  tent,  while  the  others  were  in  the  cabin 
playing  penny-ante  with  the  cook  (a  sodden  brute 
who  toadies  to  the  Bowens,  and  sulks  with  John 
because  he  objected  to  our  hiring  the  fellow  —  an 
objection  which  I  sustained,  hence  his  logical  spite 
includes  me).  John  was  melting  pine  gum  and 
elk  tallow  into  a  dressing  for  our  boots.  I  took  a 
mean  advantage  of  him,  his  hands  being  in  the 
tallow  and  the  tent-flap  down,  and  tried  on  him  a 
little  of  —  now,  don't  deride  me !  — '  Wood  Notes.' 
It  is  seldom  one  can  get  the  comment  of  a  genuine 
woodsman  on  Nature  according  to  the  poets.'  ' 

Moya  read  on  perfunctorily,  feeling  that  she  was 
not  carrying  her  audience  with  her,  and  longing  for 
the  time  when  she  could  take  her  letter  away  and 
have  it  all  to  herself.  If  she  stopped  now,  Chris 
tine,  in  this  sudden  new  freak  of  distrustfulness, 
would  be  sure  to  misunderstand. 

"  '  For  Nature  ever  faithful  is 

To  such  as  trust  her  faithfulness. 
When  the  forest  shall  mislead  me, 
When  the  night  and  morning  lie, 
When  sea  and  land  refuse  to  feed  me, 
Will  be  time  enough  to  die. 

85 


THE  DESERT  AND  THE  SOWN 

Then  will  yet  my  Mother  yield 
A  pillow  in  her  greenest  field  ; 
Nor  the  June  flowers  scorn  to  cover 
The  clay  of  their  departed  lover.' " 

"  That  is  beautiful,"  Mrs.  Bogardus  murmured 
hastily.  "Even  I  can  understand  that."  Moya 
thanked  her  with  a  glance. 

"And  what  did  the  infallible  John  say?" 
Christine  inquired. 

"John  looked  at  me  and  smiled,  as  at  a  bab 
bling  infant "  — 

"Good  for  John!" 

"  Christine,  be  stiU  I  " 

"John  looked  at  me  and  smiled,"  Moya  re 
peated  steadily.  Nothing  could  have  stopped  her 
now.  She  only  hoped  for  some  further  scattering 
mention  of  that  "  certain  member  "  who  had  set 
them  all  at  odds  and  spoiled  what  should  have  been 
an  hour's  pure  happiness.  "  '  You  '11  get  the  pil 
low  all  right,'  he  said.  '  It  might  not  be  a  green 
one,  nor  I  would  n't  bank  much  on  the  flowers ; 
but  you  '11  be  tired  enough  to  sleep  without  rock 
ing  about  the  time  you  trust  to  Nature's  tuckin' 
you  in  and  puttin'  victuals  in  your  mouth.  I 
never  see  nature  till  I  came  out  here.  I  'd  seen 
pretty  woods  and  views,  that  a  young  lady  could 
86 


A  HUNTER'S   DIARY 

take  down  with  her  paints ;  but  how  are  you  going 
to  paint  that  ? '  —  he  waved  his  tallow-stick  to 
wards  the  night  outside.  '  Ears  can't  reach  the 
bottom  of  that  stillness.  That's  creation  before 
God  ever  thought  of  man.  Long  as  I  've  been  in 
the  woods,  I  never  get  over  the  feeling  that  there  's 
something  behind  me.  If  you  go  towards  the  trees, 
they  come  to  meet  you  ;  if  you  go  backwards,  they 
go  back ;  but  you  can't  sit  down  and  sit  still  with 
out  they'll  come  a-creeping  up  and  creeping  up, 
and  crowding  in '  — 

"  He  stirred  his  '  dope '  awhile,  and  then  he 
struck  another  note.  '  I  've  wintered  alone  in  these 
mountains,'  he  said,  '  and  I  've  seen  snowslides 
pounce  out  of  a  clear  sky  —  a  puff  and  a  flash  and 
a  roar ;  an'  trees  four  foot  across  snappin'  like 
kindlin'  wood  —  not  because  it  hit  'em ;  only  the 
breath  of  it  struck  them  ;  and  maybe  a  man  lying 
dead  somewheres  under  his  cabin  timbers.  That 's 
no  mother's  love-tap.  Pillows  and  flowers  ain't  in  it. 
But  it 's  good  poetry,'  he  added  condescendingly. 

"  I  have  not  quoted  him  right,  not  being  much 
of  a  snap-shot  at  dialect ;  and  his  is  an  undefined, 
unclassifiable  mixture.  Eastern  farm  -  hand  and 
Western  ranchman,  prospector,  who  knows  what  ? 
His  real  language  is  in  his  eye  and  his  rare,  pure 
87 


THE   DESERT  AND  THE   SOWN 

smile.  And  just  as  his  countenance  expresses  his 
thoughts  without  circumlocution  or  attempt  at  ef 
fect,  so  his  body  informs  his  clothing.  Wind  and 
rain  have  moulded  his  hat  to  his  head,  his  shoes 
grip  the  ground  like  paws ;  his  buckskins  have  a 
surface  like  a  cast  after  Rodin.  They  are  repous- 
seed  by  the  hard  bones  and  sinews  underneath.  I 
can  think  of  nothing  but  the  clothing  of  Millet's 
peasants  to  compare  with  this  exterior  of  John's. 
He  is  himself  a  peasant  of  the  woods.  He  has  not 
the  predatory  instincts.  If  he  could  have  his  way, 
not  a  shot  would  be  fired  by  any  of  us  for  the  mere 
idle  sport  of  killing.  Shooting  these  innocent, 
fearless  creatures,  who  have  not  learned  that  we 
are  here  for  their  destruction,  is  too  like  murder 
and  treachery  combined.  Hunger  should  be  our 
only  excuse.  My  forbearance,  or  weakness,  is  a 
sort  of  unspoken  bond  between  us.  But  I  am  a 
peasant,  too,  you  know.  I  do  not  come  of  the 
lordly,  arms-bearing  blood.  I  shoot  at  a  live  mark 
always  under  protest ;  and  when  I  fairly  catch  the 
look  in  the  great  eye  of  a  dying  elk  or  black-tail, 
it  knocks  me  out  for  that  day's  hunt.  " 

"  Paul  is  perfectly  happy  !  "  Christine  broke  in. 
"  He  has  got  one  of  his  beloved  People  to  grovel  to. 
They  can  sleep  in  the  same  tent  and  eat  from  the 
88 


A  HUNTER'S   DIARY 

same  plate,  if  you  like.  Why,  it 's  better  than  the 
East  Side  !  He  '11  be  blood  brother  to  Packer  John 
before  they  leave  the  woods." 

Moya  blushed  with  anger. 

"  You  have  said  enough  on  that  subject,  Chris 
tine."  Mrs.  Bogardus  bent  her  dark,  keen  gaze 
upon  her  daughter's  face.  "Come"  —  she  rose. 
"  Come  with  me  !  " 

Christine  sat  still.  "  Come !  "  her  mother  re 
peated  sternly.  "  Moya,"  —  in  a  different  voice, 
—  "  your  letter  was  lovely.  Shall  you  read  it  to 
your  father  ?  " 

"  Hardly,"  said  Moya,  flushing.  "  Father  does 
not  care  for  descriptions,  and  the  woods  are  an  old 
story  to  him." 

Mrs.  Bogardus  placed  her  hands  on  the  girl's 
shoulders  and  gave  her  one  of  her  infrequent,  cere 
monious  kisses,  which,  like  her  finest  smile,  she  kept 
for  occasions  too  nice  for  words. 


89 


IX 

THE  POWER  OF  WEAKNESS 

CHRISTINE  f ollowed  her  mother  to  their  room, 
and  the  two  faced  each  other  a  moment  in 
pale  silence. 

Mrs.  Bogardus  spoke  first.  "  What  does  this 
mean  ?  "  —  her  breath  came  short,  perhaps  from 
climbing  the  stairs.  She  was  a  large  woman. 

"  What  does  what  mean  ?  I  don't  understand 
you,  mother." 

"Ah,  child,  don't  repulse  me!  Twice  you  and 
Moya  have  nearly  quarreled  about  those  men. 
Why  were  you  so  rude  to  her  ?  Why  did  you  be 
have  so  about  her  letter  ?  " 

"  Paul  is  so  intolerant !  And  the  airs  he  puts 
on  !  If  he  is  my  own  brother  I  must  say  he 's  an 
awful  prig  about  other  men." 

"  We  are  not  discussing  Paul.  That  is  not  the 
question  now.  Have  you  anything  to  tell  me, 
Christine  ?  " 

"  To  tell  you  ?  —  about  what,  mother  ?  "  Chris 
tine  spoke  lower. 

90 


THE  POWER  OF  WEAKNESS 

"  You  know  what  I  mean.  Which  of  them  is 
it  ?  Is  it  Banks  ?  —  don't  say  it  is  Banks  !  " 

"  Mother,  how  can  I  say  anything  when  you 
begin  like  that  ?  " 

"  Have  you  any  idea  what  sort  of  a  man  Banks 
Bowen  really  is  ?  His  father  supports  him  entirely 
—  six  years  now,  ever  since  he  left  the  law  school. 
He  does  nothing,  never  will  do  anything.  He  has 
no  will  or  purpose  in  life,  except  about  trifles  like 
this  hunting-trip.  As  far  as  I  can  see  he  is  with 
out  common  sense." 

Christine  stood  by  the  dressing-table  pleating 
the  cover-frilling  with  her  small  fingers  that  were 
loaded  with  rings.  She  pinched  the  folds  hard  and 
let  them  go.  "  Why  did  no  one  ever  say  these 
things  before  ?  " 

"  We  don't  say  things  about  the  sons  of  our 
friends,  unless  we  are  compelled  to.  They  were  im 
plied  in  every  way  possible.  When  have  I  asked 
Banks  Bowen  to  the  house  except  when  everybody 
was  asked !  I  would  never  in  the  world  have  come 
out  in  Mr.  Borland's  car  if  I  had  known  the  Bow- 
ens  were  to  be  of  the  party." 

"  That  made  no  difference,"  said  Christine  loftily. 

"  It  was  all  settled  before  then,  was  it  ?  " 

"  Have  I  said  it  was  settled,  mother  ?  He  asked 
91 


THE  DESERT  AND  THE   SOWN 

me  if  I  could  ever  care  for  him  ;  and  I  said  that  I 
did  —  a  little.  Why  should  n't  I  ?  He  does  what 
I  like  a  man  to  do.  I  don't  enjoy  people  who  have 
wills  and  purposes.  It  may  be  very  horrid  of  me, 
but  I  would  n't  be  in  Moya's  place  for  worlds." 

"  You  poor  child !     You  poor,  unhappy  child  !  " 

"  Why  am  I  unhappy  ?  Has  Paul  added  so 
much  to  our  income  since  he  left  college  ?  " 

"  Paul  does  not  make  money ;  neither  does  he 
selfishly  waste  it.  He  has  a  conscience  in  his  use 
of  what  he  has." 

"  I  don't  see  what  conscience  has  to  do  with  it. 
When  it  is  gone  it 's  gone." 

"  You  will  learn  what  conscience  has  to  do  with  a 
man's  spending  if  ever  you  try  to  make  both  ends 
meet  with  Banks  Bowen.  I  suppose  he  will  go 
through  the  form  of  speaking  to  me  ?  " 

"  Mother  dear  !  He  has  only  just  spoken  to  me. 
How  fast  you  go !  " 

"  Not  fast  enough  to  keep  up  with  my  children, 
it  seems.  Was  it  you,  Christine,  who  asked  them 
to  come  here?" 

Christine  was  silent. 

"  Where  did  you  learn  such  ways  ?  —  such  want 
of  frankness,  of  delicacy,  of  the  commonest  con 
sideration  for  others  ?  To  be  looking  out  for  your 
92 


THE  POWER  OF  WEAKNESS 

own  little  schemes  at  a  time  like  this !  "  Mrs. 
Bogardus  saw  now  what  must  have  been  Paul's 
reason  for  doing  what,  with  all  her  forced  explana 
tions  of  the  hunting-trip,  she  had  never  until  now 
understood.  He  had  taken  the  alarm  before  she 
had,  and  done  what  he  could  to  postpone  this 
family  catastrophe. 

Christine  retreated  to  a  deep-cushioned  chair, 
and  threw  herself  into  it,  her  slender  hands,  palm 
upwards,  extended  upon  its  arms.  Total  surren 
der  under  pressure  of  cruel  odds  was  the  expression 
of  her  pointed  eyebrows  and  drooping  mouth. 
She  looked  exasperatingly  pretty  and  irresponsibly 
fragile.  Her  blue-veined  eyelids  quivered,  her 
breath  came  in  distinct  pants. 

"  Perhaps  you  will  not  be  troubled  with  my 
*  ways '  for  very  many  years,  mother.  If  you  could 
feel  my  heart  now !  It  jumps  like  something  try 
ing  to  get  out.  It  will  get  out  some  day.  Have 
patience !  " 

"  That  is  a  poor  way  to  retaliate  upon  your 
mother,  Christine.  Your  health  is  too  serious  a 
matter  to  trifle  with.  If  you  choose  to  make  it  a 
shield  against  everything  I  say  that  does  n't  please 
you,  you  can  cut  yourself  off  from  me  entirely.  I 
cannot  beat  down  such  a  defense  as  that.  Anger 
93 


THE  DESERT  AND  THE   SOWN 

me  you  never  can,  but  you  can  make  me  helpless 
to  help  you." 

"  I  dare  say  it 's  better  that  I  should  never 
marry  at  all,"  said  Christine,  her  eyes  closed  in 
resignation.  "You  never  would  like  anybody  I 
like." 

"  I  shall  say  no  more.  You  are  a  woman.  I  have 
protected  you  as  far  as  I  was  able  on  account  of 
your  weakness.  I  cannot  protect  you  from  the 
weakness  itself." 

Mrs.  Bogardus  rose.  She  did  not  offer  to  com 
fort  her  child  with  caresses,  but  in  her  eyes  as  she 
looked  at  her  there  was  a  profound,  inalienable, 
sorrowing  tenderness,  a  depth  of  understanding 
beyond  words. 

"  I  know  so  well,"  the  dark  eyes  seemed  to  say, 
"  how  you  came  to  be  the  poor  thing  that  you  are  !  " 

The  constraint  which  she  felt  towards  her  mother 
threw  Chrissy  back  upon  Moya.  Being  a  lesser 
power,  she  was  always  seeking  alliances.  Moya  had 
put  aside  their  foolish  tiff  as  unworthy  of  another 
thought ;  she  was  embarrassed  when  at  bedtime 
Christine  came  humbly  to  her  door,  and  putting 
her  arms  around  her  neck  implored  her  not  to  be 
cross  with  her  "  poor  pussy."  It  was  always  the 
other  person  who  was  "  cross  "  with  Christine. 
94 


THE  POWER  OF  WEAKNESS 

"  Nobody  is  cross  with  anybody,  so  far  as  I 
know,"  said  Moya  briskly.  A  certain  sort  of  sen 
timentality  always  made  her  feel  like  whistling  or 
singing  or  asserting  the  commonplace  side  of  life 
in  some  way. 


95 


THE  WHITE  PERIL 

MRS.  BOGARDUS  received  many  letters, 
chiefly  on  business,  and  these  she  answered 
with  manlike  brevity,  in  a  strong,  provincial  hand. 
They  took  up  much  of  her  time,  and  mercifully, 
for  it  was  now  the  last  week  in  November  and  the 
young  men  did  not  return. 

The  range  cattle  had  been  driven  down  into  the 
valleys,  deer-tracks  multiplied  by  lonely  mountain 
fords ;  War  Eagle  and  his  brethren  of  the  Owyhees 
were  taking  council  under  their  winter  blankets. 
The  nights  were  still,  the  mornings  rimy  with  hoar 
frost.  Fogs  arose  from  the  river  and  cut  off  the 
bases  of  the  mountains,  converting  the  valley  be 
fore  sunrise  into  the  likeness  of  a  polar  sea. 

"  You  have  let  your  fire  go  out,"  said  the  colonel 
briskly.  He  had  invaded  the  sitting-room  at  an 
unaccustomed  hour,  finding  the  lady  at  her  letters 
as  usual.  She  turned  and  held  her  pen  poised 
above  her  paper  as  she  looked  at  him. 
96 


THE   WHITE   PERIL 

"  You  did  not  come  to  see  about  the  fire  ?  "  she 
said. 

"  No ;  I  have  had  letters  from  the  north.  Would 
you  step  into  my  study  a  moment  ?  " 

Moya  was  in  her  father's  room  when  they  en 
tered.  She  had  been  weeping,  but  at  sight  of 
Paul's  mother  she  rose  and  stood  picking  at  the 
handkerchief  she  held,  without  raising  her  eyes. 

"  Don't  be  alarmed  at  Moya's  face,"  said  the 
colonel  stoutly.  "  Paul  was  all  right  at  last  ac 
counts.  We  will  have  a  merry  Christmas  yet." 

"  This  is  not  from  Paul !  "  Mrs.  Bogardus  fixed 
her  eyes  upon  a  letter  which  she  held  at  arm's 
length,  feeling  for  her  glasses.  "  It 's  not  for  me 
—  *  Miss  Bogardus.' ' 

"  Ah,  well.  I  saw  it  was  postmarked  Lemhi  — 
Fort  Lemhi,  you  know.  Sit  down,  madam.  Sup 
pose  I  give  you  Mr.  Winslow's  report  first  — 
Lieutenant  Winslow.  You  heard  of  his  going  to 
Lemhi  ?  " 

"She  doesn't  know,"  whispered  Moya. 

"  True.  Well,  two  weeks  ago  I  gave  Mr.  Wins- 
low  a  hunter's  leave,  as  we  call  it  in  the  army,  to 
beat  up  the  trail  of  those  boys.  I  thought  it  was 
time  we  heard  from  them,  but  it  was  n't  worth 
while  to  raise  a  hue  and  cry.  He  started  out  with 
97 


THE   DESERT  AND  THE   SOWN 

a  few  picked  men  from  Lemhi,  the  Indian  Reser 
vation,  you  know.  I  could  n't  have  sent  a  better 
man ;  the  thing  has  n't  got  into  the  local  papers 
even.  My  object,  of  course,  has  been  to  save  un 
necessary  alarm.  Mr.  Winslow  has  just  got  back 
to  Challis.  He  rounded  up  the  Bowen  youths  and 
the  cook  and  the  helper,  in  bad  shape,  all  of  them, 
but  able  to  tell  a  story.  The  details  we  shall  get 
later,  but  I  have  Mr.  Winslow's  report  to  me.  It 
is  short  and  probably  correct." 

"Was  Paul  not  with  them?"  his  mother  ques 
tioned  in  a  hard,  dry  voice.  "  Where  is  he  then  ?  " 

"  He  is  in  camp,  madam,  in  charge  of  the 
wounded." 

"  Dear  father !  if  you  would  speak  plain ! " 
Moya  whispered  nervously. 

"  Certainly.  There  is  nothing  whatever  to  hide. 
We  know  now  that  on  their  last  day's  hunt  they 
met  with  an  accident  which  resulted  in  a  division 
of  the  party.  A  fall  of  snow  had  covered  the  ice 
on  the  trails,  and  the  guide's  horse  fell  and  rolled 
on  him  —  nature  of  his  injuries  not  described. 
This  happened  a  day's  journey  from  their  camp  at 
Ten-Mile  cabin,  and  the  retreat  with  the  wounded 
man  was  slow  and  of  course  difficult  over  such  a 
trail.  They  put  together  a  sort  of  horse-litter 
98 


THE   WHITE   PERIL 

made  of  pine  poles  and  carried  him  on  that,  slung 
between  two  mules  tandem.  A  beastly  business, 
winding  and  twisting  over  fallen  timber,  hugging 
the  canon  wall,  near  a  thousand  feet  down  — 
'  Impassable '  the  trail  is  marked,  on  the  govern 
ment  military  maps.  This  first  day's  march  was 
so  discouraging  that  at  Ten  Mile  they  called  a 
council,  and  the  packer  spoke  up  like  a  man.  He 
disposed  of  his  own  case  in  this  way.  If  he  were 
to  live,  they  could  send  back  help  to  fetch  him  out. 
If  not,  no  help  would  be  needed.  The  snows  were 
upon  them  ;  there  was  danger  in  every  hour's  de 
lay.  It  was  insane  to  sacrifice  four  sound  men  for 
one,  badly  hurt,  with  not  many  hours  perhaps  to 
suffer." 

A  murmur  from  the  mother  announced  her  ap 
preciation  of  the  packer's  argument. 

"  It  was  no  more  than  a  man  should  do  ;  but  as 
to  taking  him  at  his  word,  why,  that 's  another 
question."  The  colonel  paused  and  gustily  cleared 
his  throat.  "  They  were  up  against  it  right  then 
and  there,  and  the  party  split  upon  it.  Three  of 
them  went  on,  —  for  help,  as  they  put  it,  —  and 
Paul  stayed  behind  with  the  wounded  man." 

"  Paul  stayed  —  alone  ?  "  Mrs.  Bogardus  uttered 
with  hoarse  emphasis.  "  Was  not  that  a  very 
99 


THE   DESERT  AND  THE   SOWN 

strange  way  to  divide  ?  Among  them  all,  I  should 
think  they  might  have  brought  the  man  out  with 
them." 

"  Their  story  is  that  his  injuries  were  such  that 
he  could  not  have  borne  the  pain  of  the  journey. 
Rather  an  unusual  case,"  the  colonel  added  dryly. 
"  In  my  experience,  a  wounded  man  will  stand 
anything  sooner  than  be  left  on  the  field." 

"  I  cannot  understand  it,"  Mrs.  Bogardus  re 
peated,  in  a  voice  of  indignant  pain.  "  Such  a 
strange  division  !  One  man  left  alone  —  to  nurse, 
and  hunt,  and  cook,  and  keep  up  fires !  Suppose 
the  guide  should  die  !  " 

"  Paul  was  not  left,  you  know,"  the  colonel  said 
emphatically.  "  He  stayed.  And  I  should  be 
thankful  in  your  place,  madam,  that  my  son  was 
the  man  who  made  that  choice.  But  setting  con 
duct  aside,  for  we  are  not  prepared  to  judge,  it  is 
merely  a  matter  of  time  our  getting  in  there,  now 
that  we  know  where  he  is." 

"  How  much  time  ?  "  Mrs.  Bogardus  opened  her 
ashen  lips  to  say. 

The  colonel's  face  fell.     "  Mr.  Winslow  reports 

heavy  snows   for  the  past  week,  —  soft,  clogging 

snow,  —  too  deep  to  wade  through  and  too  soft  to 

bear.     A  little  later,  when  the  cold  has  formed  a 

100 


THE   WHITE   PERIL 

crust,  our  men  can  get  in  on  snowshoes.  There  is 
nothing  for  it  but  patience,  Mrs.  Bogardus,  and 
faith  in  the  boy's  endurance.  The  pluck  that  made 
Liiu  stay  behind  will  help  him  to  hold  out." 

Moya  gave  a  hurt  sob ;  the  colonel  stepped  to 
the  desk  and  stood  there  a  moment  turning  over 
his  papers.  Behind  his  back  the  mother  sent  a 
glance  to  Moya  expressive  of  despair. 

"  Do  you  know  what  happened  to  his  father  ? 
Did  he  ever  tell  you?  "  she  whispered. 

Moya  assented ;  she  could  not  speak. 

"  Twice,  twice  in  a  lifetime !  "  said  the  older 
woman. 

With  a  gesture,  Moya  protested  against  this 
wild  prophecy ;  but  as  Paul's  mother  left  the  room 
she  rushed  upon  her  father,  crying :  "  Tell  me  the 
trutli !  What  do  you  think  of  it  ?  Did  you  ever 
hear  of  such  a  dastardly  thing  ?  " 

"  It  was  a  rout,"  said  the  colonel  coolly.  "  They 
were  in  full  flight  before  the  enemy." 

"  What  enemy  ?  They  deserted  a  wounded  com 
rade,  and  a  servant  at  that !  " 

"  The  enemy  was  panic,  —  panic,  my  dear.     In 

these  woods  I  've  seen  strong  men  go  half  beside 

themselves    with    fear    of    something  —  the    Lord 

knows  what !    Then,  add  the  winter  and  what  they 

101 


THE   DESERT  AND   THE   SOWN 

had  seen  and  heard  of  that.  Anyway,  you  can 
afford  to  be  easy  on  the  other  boys.  The  honors 
of  the  day  are  with  Paul  —  and  the  old  packer, 
though  it 's  all  in  the  day's  work  to  him." 

"  And  you  are  satisfied  with  Paul,  father  ?  " 

"  He  did  n't  desert  his  command  to  save  his  own 
skin."  The  colonel  smiled  grimly. 

"  When  the  men  of  the  Fourth  discovered  those 
other  fellows  they  had  literally  sat  down  in  the 
snow  to  die.  Not  a  man  of  them  knew  how  to 
pack  a  mule.  Their  meat  pack  slipped,  going  along 
one  of  those  high  trails,  and  scared  the  mule,  and 
in  trying  to  kick  himself  free  the  beast  fell  off 
the  trail  —  mule  and  meat  both  gone.  They  got 
tired  of  carrying  their  stuff  and  made  a  raft  to 
float  it  down  the  river,  and  lost  that !  Paul  has 
been  much  better  off  in  camp  than  he  would  have 
been  with  them.  So  cheer  up,  my  girl,  and  think 
how  you  'd  like  to  have  your  bridegroom  out  on  an 
Indian  campaign  !  " 

"  Ah,  but  that  would  be  orders  !  It 's  the  use- 
lessness  that  hurts.  There  was  nothing  to  do  or 
to  gain.  He  didn't  want  to  go.  Oh,  daddy 
dear,  I  made  fun  of  his  shooting,  —  I  did  !  I 
laughed  at  his  way  with  firearms.  Wretched  fool 
and  snob  that  I  was  !  As  if  I  cared  !  I  thought 
102 


THE  WHITE   PERIL 

of  what  other  people  would  say.  You  remember, 
—  he  went  shooting  up  the  gulch  with  Mr.  Lane, 
and  when  he  hit  but  didn't  kill  he  wouldn't  — 
could  n't  put  the  birds  out  of  pain.  Jephson  had 
to  do  it  for  him,  and  he  told  it  in  barracks  and  the 
men  laughed." 

"  How  did  you  know  that !  And  what  does  it 
all  amount  to !  Blame  yourself  all  you  like,  dear, 
if  it  does  you  any  good,  but  don't  make  him  out  a 
fool !  There  's  not  much  that  comes  to  us  straight 
in  this  world  —  not  even  orders,  you  '11  find.  But 
we  have  to  take  it  straight  and  leave  the  muddles 
and  the  blunders  as  they  are.  That 's  the  brave 
man's  courage  and  the  brave  woman's.  Orders  are 
mixed,  but  duty  is  clear.  And  the  boy  out  there 
in  the  woods  has  found  his  duty  and  done  it  like 
a  man.  That  should  be  enough  for  any  soldier's 
daughter." 

An  hour  passed  in  suspense.  Moya  was  dis 
appointed  in  her  expectation  of  sharing  in  what 
ever  the  letter  from  Fort  Lemhi  might  contain. 
Christine  was  in  bed  with  a  headache,  her  mother 
dully  gave  out,  with  no  apparent  expectation  that 
any  one  would  accept  this  excuse  for  the  girl's 
complete  withdrawal.  The  letter,  she  told  Moya, 
was  from  Banks  Bowen.  "  There  was  nothing  in 
103 


THE   DESEET   AND  THE   SOWN 

it  of  consequence  —  to  us,"  she  added,  and  Moya 
took  the  words  to  mean  "  you  and  me  "  to  the 
unhappy  exclusion  of  Christine. 

Mrs.  Bogardus's  face  had  settled  into  lines  of 
anxiety  printed  years  before,  as  the  creases  in  an 
old  garment,  smoothed  and  laid  away,  will  reap 
pear  with  fresh  wear.  Her  plan  was  to  go  back 
to  New  York  with  Christine,  who  was  plainly  unfit 
to  bear  a  long  siege  of  suspense.  There  she  could 
leave  the  girl  with  friends  and  learn  what  par 
ticulars  could  be  gathered  from  the  Bowens,  who 
would  have  arrived.  She  would  then  return  alone 
and  wait  for  news  at  the  garrison.  That  night, 
with  Moya's  help,  she  completed  her  packing,  and 
on  the  following  day  the  wedding  party  broke  up. 


104 


XI 

A  SEARCHING  OF  HEARTS 

FINE,  dry  snowflakes  were  drifting  past  the 
upper  square  of  a  window  set  in  a  wall  of 
logs.     The  lower  half  was  obscured  by  a  white 
bulk  that  shouldered  up  against  the  sash  in  the 
likeness  of  a  muffled  figure  stooping  to  peer  in. 

Lying  in  his  bunk  against  the  wall,  the  packer 
watched  this  sentinel  snowdrift  grow  and  become 
human  and  bold  and  familiar.  His  deep-lined 
visage  was  reduced  to  its  bony  structure.  The 
hand  was  a  claw  with  which  he  plucked  at  the 
ancient  fever-crust  shredding  from  his  lips :  an 
occupation  at  once  so  absorbing  and  so  exhausting 
that  often  the  hand  would  drop  and  the  blankets 
rise  upon  the  arch  of  the  chest  in  a  sigh  of  re 
tarded  respiration.  The  sigh  would  be  followed 
by  a  cough,  controlled,  as  in  dread  of  the  shock  to 
a  sore  and  shattered  frame.  The  snow  came  faster 
and  faster  until  the  dim,  wintry  pane  was  a  blur. 
Millions  of  atoms  crossed  the  watcher's  weary 
105 


THE   DESERT   AND   THE   SOWN 

vision,  whirling,  wavering,  driven  with  an  aimless 
persistence,  unable  to  pause  or  to  stop.  And  the 
blind  white  snowdrift  climbed,  fed,  like  human 
circumstance,  from  disconnected  atoms  impelled  by 
a  common  law. 

There  were  sounds  in  the  cabin :  wet  wood 
sweating  on  hot  coals  ;  a  step  that  went  to  and 
fro.  Outside,  a  snow-weighted  bough  let  go  its 
load  and  sprang  up,  scraping  against  the  logs. 
Some  heavy  soft  thing  slid  off  the  roof  and  dropped 
with  a  chug.  Then  the  door,  that  hung  awry  like 
a  drooping  eyelid,  gave  a  disreputable  wink,  and 
the  whole  front  gable  of  the  cabin  loomed  a  giant 
countenance  with  a  silly  forehead  and  an  evil  leer. 
Now  it  seemed  that  a  hand  was  hurling  snow 
against  the  door,  as  a  sower  scatters  grain,  —  snow 
that  lay  like  beach  sand  on  the  floor,  or  melted 
into  a  crawling  pool  —  red  in  the  firelight,  red  as 
blood ! 

These  and  other  phantasms  had  now  for  an  un 
measured  time  been  tenants  of  the  packer's  brain, 
sharing  and  often  overpowering  the  reality  of  the 
human  step  that  went  to  and  fro.  To-day  the 
shapes  and  relations  of  things  were  more  natural, 
and  the  step  aroused  a  querulous  curiosity. 

"  Who  's  there  ?  "  the  sick  man  imagined  him- 
106 


A   SEARCHING   OF  HEARTS 

self  to  have  said.  A  croaking  sound  in  his  throat, 
which  was  all  he  could  do  by  way  of  speech,  brought 
the  step  to  his  bedside.  A  young  face,  lightly 
bearded,  and  gaunt  almost  as  his  own,  bent  over 
him.  Large,  black  eyes  rested  on  his ;  a  hand  with 
womanish  nails  placed  its  fingers  on  his  wrist. 

"You  are  better  to-day.  Your  pulse  is  down. 
I  would  n't  try  to  talk." 

"  Who  's  that  —  outside  ?  " 

"  There  is  no  one  outside,"  Paul  answered,  fol 
lowing  the  direction  of  his  patient's  eyes.  "  That  ? 
That  is  only  a  snowdrift.  It  grows  faster  than  I 
can  shovel  it  away." 

The  packer  had  forgotten  his  own  question.  He 
dozed  off,  and  presently  roused  again  as  suddenly 
as  he  had  slept.  His  utterance  was  clearer,  but 
not  his  meaning. 

"  What  —  you  want  to  fetch  me  back  for  ?  " 

"  Back  ?  "  Paul  repeated. 

"  I  was  most  gone,  wa'n't  I  ?  " 

"  Back  to  life,  you  mean  ?  You  came  back  of 
yourself.  I  had  n't  much  to  do  with  it." 

"  What 's  been  the  matter  —  gen'ly  speaking  ?  " 

"  You  were  hurt,  don't  you  remember  ?     Some 
thing  like  wound  fever  set  in.     The  altitude  is  bad 
for  fevers.     You  have  had  a  pretty  close  call." 
107 


THE   DESERT  AND  THE   SOWN 

"  Been  here  all  the  time  ?  " 

"  Have  I  been  here  ?  —  yes." 

"  'Lone  ?  " 

"  With  you.  How  is  your  chest  ?  Does  it  hurt 
you  still  when  you  breathe  ?  " 

The  sick  man  filled  his  lungs  experimentally. 
"  Something  busted  inside,  I  guess,"  he  panted. 
"  'T  ain't  no  killing  matter,  though." 

Nourishment,  in  a  tin  cup,  warm  from  the  fire 
was  offered  him,  refused  with  a  gesture,  and  firmly 
urged  upon  him.  This  necessitated  another  rest. 
It  was  long  before  he  spoke  again  —  out  of  some 
remoter  train  of  thought  apparently. 

"  Family  all  in  New  York  ?  " 

"  My  family  ?  They  were  at  Bisuka  when  I  left 
them." 

"  You  don't  live  West !  " 

"  No.  I  was  born  in  the  West,  though.  Idaho 
is  my  native  state." 

The  patient  fell  to  whimpering  suddenly  like  a 
hurt  child.  He  drew  up  the  blanket  to  cover  his 
face.  Paul,  interpreting  this  as  a  signal  for  more 
nourishment,  brought  the  sad  decoction,  —  rinds  of 
dried  beef  cooked  with  rice  in  snow  water. 

"  Guess  that  '11  do,  thank  ye.     My  tongue  feels 
like  an  old  buckskin  glove." 
108 


A  SEARCHING   OF  HEARTS 

"  When  I  was  a  little  fellow,"  said  the  nurse, 
beguiling  the  patient  while  he  tucked  the  spoonfuls 
down,  "  I  was  like  you  :  I  would  n't  take  what  the 
doctor  ordered,  and  they  used  to  pretend  I  must 
take  it  for  the  others  of  the  family,  —  a  kind  of 
vicarious  milk  diet,  or  gruel,  or  whatever  it  was. 
*  Here 's  a  spoonful  for  mother,  poor  mother,' 
they  would  say ;  and  of  course  it  could  n't  be  refused 
when  mother  needed  it  so  much.  '  And  now  one 
for  Chrissy  '  "  — 

«  Who  ?  " 

"  My  sister,  Christine.  And  then  I  'd  take  one 
for  '  uncle  '  and  one  for  each  of  the  servants  ;  and 
the  cupful  would  go  down  to  the  health  of  the 
household,  and  I  the  dupe  of  my  sympathies ! 
Now  you  are  taking  this  for  me,  because  it 's  nicer 
to  be  shut  up  here  with  a  live  man  than  a  dead 
one ;  and  we  have  n't  the  conveniences  for  a  first- 
class  funeral." 

"  You  never  took  a  spoonful  for  '  father,'  — 
eh?" 

Paul  answered  the  question  with  gravity.  "  No. 
We  never  used  that  name  in  common." 

"  Dead  was  he  ?  " 

"  I  will  tell  you  some  time.  Better  try  to  sleep 
now." 

109 


THE   DESERT   AND   THE   SOWN 

Paul  returned  the  saucepan  to  the  fire,  after 
piecing  out  its  contents  with  water,  and  retired 
out  of  his  patient's  sight. 

Again  came  a  murmur,  chiefly  unintelligible, 
from  the  bunk. 

"  Did  you  ask  for  anything  ?  " 

The  sick  man  heaved  a  worried  sigh.  "  See  what 
a  mis'rable  presumptuous  piece  of  work  !  "  he  mut 
tered,  addressing  the  logs  overhead.  "  But  that 
Clauson  —  he  wa'n't  no  more  fit  to  guide  ye  than 
to  go  to  heaven!  Couldn't  'a'  done  much  worse 
than  this,  though  !  " 

"  He  has  done  worse  !  "  Paul  came  over  to  the 
bunk-side  to  reason  on  this  matter.  "  They  started 
back  from  here,  four  strong  men  with  all  the  ani 
mals  and  all  the  food  they  needed  for  a  six  weeks' 
trip.  We  came  in  in  one.  If  they  got  through 
at  all,  where  is  the  help  they  were  to  send  us  ?  " 

"  Help  !  "  The  packer  roused.  "  They  helped 
themselves,  and  pretty  frequent.  I  said  to  them 
more  than  once  —  they  did  n't  like  it  any  too  well : 
'  We  can't  drink  up  here  like  they  do  down  to  the 
coast.  The  air  is  too  light.  What  a  man  would 
take  with  his  dinner  down  there  would  fit  him  out 
with  a  first-class  jag  up  here,  'leven  thousand  above 
the  sea!'" 

110 


A  SEARCHING  OF  HEARTS 

"  It 's  a  waste  of  breath  to  talk  about  them  — 
breath  burns  up  food  and  we  haven't  much  to 
spare.  We  rushed  into  this  trouble  and  we 
dragged  you  in  after  us.  We  have  hurt  you  a 
good  deal  more  than  you  have  us." 

The  sick  man  groaned.  He  flung  one  hand  back 
against  the  logs,  dislodging  ancient  dust  that  fell 
upon  his  corpse-like  forehead.  It  was  carefully 
wiped  away.  Helpless  tears  stole  down  the  rigid 
face. 

"  John,"  said  Paul  with  animation,  "  your  gen 
eral  appearance  just  now  reminds  me  of  those 
worked-out  placer  claims  we  passed  in  Ruby  Gulch, 
the  first  day  out.  The  fever  and  my  cooking  have 
ground-sluiced  you  to  the  bone." 

John  smiled  faintly.  "  Don't  look  very  fat 
yourself.  Where  'd  you  git  all  that  baird  on  your 
face  ?  " 

"  We  have  been  here  some  time,  you  know  — 
or  you  don't  know  ;  you  have  been  living  in  places 
far  away  from  here.  I  used  to  envy  you  sometimes. 
And  other  times  I  did  n't." 

"  You  mean  I  was  off  my  head  ?  " 

"  At   times.     But  more  of  the  time  you  were 
dreaming  and  talking  in  your  dreams  ;  seeing  things 
out  loud  by  the  flash-light  of  fever." 
Ill 


THE   DESERT   AND  THE   SOWN 

"  Talking,  was  I  ?  Guess  there  wa'n't  much 
sense  in  any  of  it? "  The  hazard  was  a  question. 

"  A  kind  of  sense,  —  out  of  focus,  distorted. 
Some  of  it  was  opium.  Did  n't  you  coax  a  little  of 
his  favorite  medicine  out  of  the  cook?  " 

Packer  John  apologized  sheepishly,  "  I  cal'lated 
I  was  going  to  be  left.  You  put  it  up  on  me  — 
making  out  you  were  off  with  the  rest.  That  was 
all  right.  But  I  wa'n't  going  to  suffer  it  out; 
why  should  I?  A  gunshot  would  have  cured  me 
quicker,  perhaps.  Then  some  critter  might  'a' 
found  me  and  called  it  murder.  A  word  like  that 
set  going  can  hang  a  man.  No,  I  just  took  a  little 
to  deaden  the  pain." 

"The  whole  discussion  was  rather  nasty,  right 
before  the  man  we  were  talking  about,"  said  Paul. 
"I  wanted  to  get  them  off  and  out  of  hearing. 
Then  we  had  a  few  words." 

At  intervals  during  that  day  and  the  next,  Paul's 
patient  expended  his  strength  in  questions,  appar 
ently  trivial.  His  eyes,  whenever  they  were  open, 
followed  his  nurse  with  a  shrinking  intelligence. 
Paul  was  on  his  guard. 

"  What  day  of  the  month  do  you  make  it  out  to 
be?" 

"  The  second  of  December." 
112 


A   SEARCHING   OF  HEARTS 

"  December  !  "  The  packer  lay  still  considering. 
"  Game  all  gone  down  ?  " 

"  I  am  not  much  of  a  pot-hunter,"  said  Paul. 
"  There  may  be  game,  but  I  can't  seem  to  get  it. 
The  snow  is  pretty  deep." 

"  Would  n't  bear  a  man  on  snowshoes  ?  " 

"  He  would  go  out  of  sight." 

"  Snowing  a  little  every  day  ?  " 

"  Right  along,  quietly,  for  I  don't  know  how 
many  days  !  I  think  the  sky  is  packed  with  it  a 
mile  deep." 

"  How  much  grub  have  we  got  ?  " 

Paul  gave  a  flattering  estimate  of  their  resources. 
The  patient  was  not  deceived. 

"  Where  's  it  all  gone  to  ?  You  ain't  eat  any 
thing." 

"  I  've  eaten  a  good  deal  more  than  you  have." 

"  I  was  livin'  on  fever." 

"  You  can't  live  on  fever  any  longer.  The  fever 
has  left  you,  and  you  '11  go  with  it  if  you  don't 
obey  your  doctor." 

"  But  where  's  all  the  stuff  gone  to  ?  " 

"  There  were  four  of  them,  and  they  allowed  for 
some  delay  in  getting  out,"  Paul  explained,  with  a 
sickly  smile. 

"  Well,  they  was  hogs  !  I  knew  how  they  'd 
113 


THE   DESERT  AND   THE   SOWN 

pan  out !     That   was   why "  —     He   wearied   of 
speech  and  left  the  point  unfinished. 

On  the  evening  following,  when  the  two  could 
no  longer  see  each  other's  faces  in  the  dusk,  Paul 
spoke,  controlling  his  voice  :  — 

"  I  need  not  ask  you,  John,  what  you  think  of 
our  chances  ?  " 

"  I  guess  they  ain't  much  worth  thinking  about." 
The  fire  hissed  and  crackled  ;  the  soft  subsidence 
of  the  snow  could  be  heard  outside. 

"  We  are  '  free  among  the  dead,'  how  does  it 
go  ?  '  Like  unto  them  that  are  wounded  and  lie 
in  the  grave.'  What  we  say  to  each  other  here 
will  stop  here  with  our  breath.  Let  us  put  our 
memories  in  order  for  the  last  reckoning.  I  think, 
John,  you  must,  at  some  time  in  your  life,  have 
known  my  father,  Adam  Bogardus  ?  He  was  lost 
on  the  Snake  River  plains,  twenty-one  years  ago 
this  autumn." 

Receiving  no  answer,  the  pale  young  inquisitor 
went  on,  choosing  his  words  with  intense  delibera 
tion  as  one  feeling  his  way  in  the  dark. 

"  Most  of  us  believe  in  some  form  of  communi 
cation  that  we  can't  explain,  between  those  who 
are  separated  in  body,  in  this  world,  but   closely 
united  in  thought.    Do  I  make  myself  clear  ?  " 
114 


A  SEARCHING   OF   HEARTS 

There  was  a  sound  of  deep  breathing  from  the 
bunk  ;  it  produced  a  similar  conscious  excitement 
in  the  speaker.  He  halted,  recovered  himself,  and 
continued :  — 

"  After  my  father's  disappearance,  my  mother 
had  a  distinct  presentiment  —  it  haunted  her  for 
years  —  that  something  had  happened  to  him  at  a 
place  called  One  Man  Station.  Did  you  ever  know 
the  place  ?  " 

"  I  might  have."     The  words  came  huskily. 

"  Father  had  left  her  at  this  place,  and  to  her 
knowledge  he  never  came  back.  But  she  had  this 
intimation  —  and  suffered  from  it  —  that  he  did 
come  back  and  was  foully  dealt  with  there  — 
wronged  in  body  or  mind.  The  place  had  most 
evil  associations  for  her  ;  it  was  not  strange  she 
should  have  connected  it  with  the  great  disaster  of 
her  life.  As  you  lay  talking  to  yourself  in  your 
fever,  you  took  me  back  on  that  lost  trail  that 
ended,  as  we  thought,  in  the  grave.  But  we  might 
have  been  mistaken.  Is  there  anything  it  would 
not  be  safe  for  you  and  me  to  speak  of  now  ?  Do 
you  know  any  tie  between  men  that  should  be 
closer  than  the  tie  between  us  ?  Any  safer  place 
where  a  man  could  lay  off  the  secret  burdens  of  his 
life  and  be  himself  for  a  little  while  —  before  the 
115 


THE   DESERT   AND  THE   SOWN 

end  answers  all?  I  know  you  have  a  secret.  I 
believe  that  a  share  of  it  belongs  to  me." 

"  We  are  better  off  sometimes  if  we  don't  get 
all  that  belongs  to  us,"  said  John  gratingly. 

"  It  does  n't  seem  to  be  a  matter  of  choice,  does 
it  ?  If  you  were  not  meant  to  tell  me  —  what  you 
have  partly  told  me  already  —  where  is  there  any 
meaning  in  our  being  here  at  all?  Let  us  have 
some  excuse  for  this  senseless  accident.  Do  you 
believe  much  in  accidents?  How  foolish  " —  Paul 
sighed  — "  for  you  and  me  to  be  afraid  of  each 
other !  Two  men  who  have  parted  with  everything 
but  the  privilege  of  speaking  the  truth  !  " 

The  packer  raised  himself  in  his  bunk  slowly, 
like  one  in  pain.  He  looked  long  at  the  listless 
figure  crouching  by  the  fire ;  then  he  sank  back 
again  with  a  low  groan.  "  What  was  it  you  heared 
me  say?  Come  !  " 

"  I  can't  give  you  the  exact  words.  The  words 
were  nothing.  Have  n't  you  watched  the  sparks 
blow  up,  at  night,  when  the  wind  goes  searching 
over  the  ashes  of  an  old  camp-fire?  It  was  the 
fever  made  you  talk,  and  your  words  were  the 
sparks  that  showed  where  there  had  been  fire  once. 
Perhaps  I  had  no  right  to  track  you  by  your  own 
words  when  you  lay  helpless,  but  I  could  n't  always 
116 


A  SEARCHING   OF  HEARTS 

leave  you.  Now  I  'd  like  to  have  my  share  of 
that —  whatever  it  was  —  that  hurt  you  so,  at  One 
Man  Station." 

"  You  ought  to  been  a  lawyer,"  said  the  packer, 
releasing  his  breath.  There  was  less  strain  in 
his  voice.  It  broke  with  feeling.  "  You  put  up 
a  mighty  strong  case  for  your  way  of  looking  at 
it.  I  don't  say  it  's  best.  There,  if  you  will 
have  it !  Sonny  —  my  son !  It  —  it 's  like  startin' 
a  snow-slide." 

The  sick  man  broke  down  and  sobbed  child 
ishly. 

"  Take  it  quietly !  Oh,  take  it  quietly !  "  Paul 
shivered.  "  I  have  known  it  a  long  time." 

Hours  later  they  were  still  awake,  the  packer 
in  his  bunk,  Paul  in  his  blankets  by  the  winking 
brands.  The  pines  were  moving,  and  in  pauses  of 
the  wind  they  could  hear  the  incessant  soft  crowd 
ing  of  the  snow. 

"  When  they  find  us  here  in  the  spring,"  said 
the  packer  humbly,  "  it  won't  matter  much  which 
on  us  was  '  Mister  '  and  which  was  '  John.'  " 

"  Are  you  thinking  of  that ! "  Paul  answered 
with  nervous  irritation.  "  I  thought  you  had  lived 
in  the  woods  long  enough  to  have  got  rid  of  all 
that  nonsense !  " 

117 


THE   DESERT  AND  THE   SOWN 

"  I  guess  there  was  some  of  it  where  you  've 
been  living." 

"  We  are  done  with  all  that  now.  Go  to  sleep, 
—  Father."  He  pronounced  the  word  conscien 
tiously  to  punish  himself  for  dreading  it.  The 
darkness  seemed  to  ring  with  it  and  give  it  back 
to  him  ironically.  "  Father  !  "  muttered  the  pines 
outside,  and  the  snow,  listening,  let  fall  the  word 
in  elfin  whispers.  Paul  turned  over  desperately 
in  his  blankets.  "  Father !  "  he  repeated  out 
loud.  "  Do  you  believe  it  ?  Does  it  do  you  any 
good?" 

"  I  would  n't  distress  myself,  one  way  or  t'  other, 
if  it  don't  come  natural,"  the  packer  spoke,  out  of 
his  corner  in  the  darkness.  "  Wait  till  you  can 
feel  to  say  it.  The  word  ain't  nothing." 

"  But  do  you  feel  it  ?  Is  it  any  comfort  to  you 
at  all?" 

"  I  ain't  in  any  hurry  to  feel  it.  We  '11  get 
there.  Don't  worry.  And  s'pose  we  don't !  We  're 
men.  Man  to  man  is  good  enough  for  me." 

Paul  spent  some  wakeful  hours  after  that,  trying 
not  to  think  of  Moya,  of  his  mother  and  Christine. 
They  were  of  another  world,  —  a  world  that  dies 
hard  at  twenty-four.  Towards  morning  he  slept, 
but  not  without  dreams. 

118 


A   SEARCHING  OF   HEARTS 

He  was  in  the  pent-road  at  Stone  Ridge.  It  was 
sunset  and  long  shadows  striped  the  lane.  A  mail 
stood,  back  towards  him,  leaning  both  arms  on 
the  stone  fence  that  bounds  the  lane  to  the  east 
ward,  —  a  plain  farmer  figure,  gazing  down  across 
the  niisty  fields  as  he  might  have  stood  a  hundred 
times  in  that  place  at  that  hour.  Paul  could  not 
see  his  face,  but  something  told  him  who  it  must 
be.  His  heart  stood  still,  for  he  saw  his  mother 
coming  up  the  lane.  She  carried  something  in  her 
hand  covered  with  a  napkin,  and  she  smiled,  walk 
ing  carefully  as  if  carrying  a  treat  to  a  sick  child. 
She  passed  the  man  at  the  fence,  not  appearing  to 
have  seen  him. 

"  Won't  you  speak  to  him,  mother  ?  Won't 
you  speak  to  "  —  He  could  not  utter  the  name. 
She  looked  at  him  bewildered.  "  Speak  ?  who 
shall  I  speak  to  ? "  The  man  at  the  fence  had 
turned  and  he  watched  her,  or  so  Paul  imagined. 
He  felt  himself  choking,  faint,  with  the  effort  to 
speak  that  one  word.  Too  late!  The  moment 
passed.  The  man  whom  he  knew  was  his  father, 
the  solemn,  quiet  figure,  moved  away  up  the  road 
unquestioned.  He  never  looked  back.  Paul  grew 
dizzy  with  the  lines  of  shadow  ;  they  stretched  on 
and  on,  they  became  the  ties  of  a  railroad  —  inter- 
119 


THE  DESERT  AND  THE   SOWN 

minable.  He  awoke,  very  faint  and  tired,  with  a 
lost  feeling  and  the  sense  upon  him  of  some  great 
catastrophe.  The  old  man  was  sleeping  deeply  in 
his  bunk,  a  ray  of  white  sunlight  falling  on  his 
yellow  features.  He  looked  like  one  who  woidd 
never  wake  again.  But  as  Paul  gazed  at  him  he 
smiled,  and  sighed  heavily.  His  lips  formed  a 
name ;  and  all  the  blood  in  Paul's  body  dyed  his 
face  crimson.  The  name  was  his  mother's. 


120 


XII 
THE  BLOOD-WITE 

A  FEW  hours  seemed  days,  after  the  great  dis 
closure.  Both  men  had  recoiled  from  it  and 
were  feeling  the  strain  of  the  new  relation.  Three 
times  since  their  first  meeting  the  elder  had  ad 
justed  himself  quietly  to  a  change  in  the  younger's 
manner  to  him.  First  there  had  been  respectful 
curiosity  in  the  presence  of  a  new  type,  combined 
with  the  deference  due  a  leader  and  an  expert  in 
strange  fields.  Then  indignant  partisanship,  pity, 
and  the  slight  condescension  of  the  nurse.  This 
had  hurt  the  packer,  but  he  took  it  as  he  accepted 
his  physical  downfall.  The  last  change  was  hard 
est  to  bear  ;  for  now  the  time  was  short,  and,  as 
Paul  himself  had  said,  they  were  in  the  presence 
of  the  final  unveiling. 

So  when  Paul  made  artificial  remarks  to  break 
the  pauses,  avoiding  his  father's  eye  and  giving  him 
neither  name  nor  title,  the  latter  became  silent  and 
lay  staring  at  the  logs  and  picking  at  his  hands. 
121 


THE   DESERT  AND   THE   SOWN 

"  If  I  was  hunting  up  a  father,"  he  said  to  him 
self  aloud  one  day,  "  I  'd  try  to  find  a  better  lookin' 
one.  I  would  n't  pa'm  off  on  myself  no  such  old 
warped  stick  as  I  be."  The  remark  seemed  a  ten 
tative  one. 

"  I  had  the  choice,  to  take  or  leave  you,"  Paul 
responded.  "  You  were  an  unconscious  witness. 
Why  should  I  have  opened  the  subject  at  all  ?  " 

Both  knew  that  this  answer  was  an  evasion.  By 
forcing  the  tie  they  had  merely  marked  the  want 
of  ease  and  confidence  between  them.  As  "  Packer 
John  "  Paul  could  have  enjoyed,  nay,  loved  this 
man  ;  as  his  father,  the  sum  and  finality  of  his 
filial  dreams,  the  supplanter  of  that  imaginary  hus 
band  of  his  mother's  youth,  the  thing  was  impossi 
ble.  And  the  father  knew  it  and  did  not  resent  it 
in  the  least,  only  pitied  the  boy  for  his  needless 
struggle.  He  was  curious  about  him,  too.  He 
wanted  to  understand  him  and  the  life  he  had 
come  out  of :  his  roundabout  way  of  reaching  the 
simplest  conclusions ;  his  courage  in  argument,  and 
his  personal  shying  away  from  the  truth  when 
found.  More  than  all  he  longed  for  a  little  plain 
talk,  the  exile's  hunger  for  news  from  home.  It 
pleased  him  when  Paul,  rousing  at  this  deliberate 
challenge,  spoke  up  with  animation,  as  if  he  had 
122 


THE   BLOOD-WITE 

come  to  some  conclusion  in  his  own  mind.  It  could 
not  be  expected  he  would  express  it  simply.  The 
packer  had  become  used  to  his  oddly  elaborate  way 
of  putting  things. 

"  If  we  had  food  enough  and  time,  we  might 
afford  to  waste  them  discussing  each  other's  per 
sonal  appearance.  /  propose  we  talk  to  some 
purpose." 

"  Talking  sure  burns  up  the  food."  The  packer 
waited. 

"  I  wish  I  knew  what  my  father  was  doing  with 
himself,  all  those  years  when  his  family  were  giving 
him  the  honors  of  the  dead." 

"  I  warned  ye  about  this  pumping  out  old  shafts. 
You  can't  tell  what  you  '11  find  in  the  bottom.  I 
suppose  you  know  there  are  things  in  this  world, 
Boy,  a  good  deal  worse  than  death  ?  " 

"  Desertion  is  worse.  It  is  not  my  father's 
death  I  want  explained,  it  is  his  life,  your  life,  in 
secret,  these  twenty  years!  Can  you  explain 
that  ?  " 

The  packer  doubled  his  bony  fist  and  brought  it 
down  on  the  bunk-side.  "  Now  you  talk  like  a 
man !  I  been  waiting  to  hear  you  say  that.  Yes, 
I  can  answer  that  question,  if  you  ain't  afeard  of 
the  answer ! " 

123 


THE   DESERT  AND  THE   SOWN 

"  I  am  keeping  alive  to  hear  it  !  "  said  Paul  in  a 
guarded  voice. 

"  You  might  say  you  're  keeping  me  alive  to  tell 
it.  It  's  a  good  thing  to  git  off  of  one's  mind  ;  but 
it  's  a  poor  thing  to  hand  over  to  a  son.  All  I  've 
got  to  leave  ye,  though  :  the  truth  if  you  can  stand 
it  !  Where  do  you  want  I  should  begin  ?  " 

"  At  the  night  when  you  came  back  to  One  Man 
Station." 

"  How  'd  you  know  I  come  back  ?  " 

"  You  were  back  there  in  your  fever,  living  over 
something  that  happened  in  that  place.  There  was 
a  wind  blowing  and  the  door  would  n't  shut.  And 
something  had  to  be  lifted,"  —  the  old  man's  eyes, 
fixed  upon  his  son,  took  a  look  of  awful  comprehen 
sions,  —  "  something  heavy." 

"  Yes  ;  great  Lord,  it  was  heavy  !  And  I  been 
carrying  it  ever  since  !  "  His  chest  rose  as  if  the 
weight  of  that  load  lay  on  it  still,  and  his  breath 
expired  with  a  hoarse  "  haugh.  "  "  I  got  out  of 
the  way  because  it  was  my  load.  I  did  n't  want 
no  help  from  them."  He  paused  and  sat  pick 
ing  at  his  hands.  "  It's  a  dreadful  ugly  story. 
I'd  most  as  soon  live  it  over  again  as  have  to 
tell  it  in  cold  blood.  I  feel  sometimes  it  can't 


124 


THE   BLOOD-WITE 

"  You  need  not  go  back  beyond  that  night.  I 
know  how  my  mother  was  left,  and  what  sort  of  a 
man  you  were  forced  to  leave  her  with.  Was  it 

—  the  keeper  ?  " 

"  That 's  what  it  was.  That  was  the  hard  knot 
in  my  thread.  Nothing  would  n't  go  past  that. 
Some,  when  they  git  things  in  a  tangle,  they  just 
reach  for  the  shears  an'  cut  the  thread.  I  wa'n't 
brought  up  that  way.  I  was  taught  to  leave  the 
shears  alone.  So  I  went  on  stringin'  one  year  after 
another.  But  they  would  n't  join  on  to  them  that 
went  before.  There  was  the  knot." 

"  It  was  between  you  and  him  —  and  the  law  ?  " 
said  Paul. 

"  You  've  got  it !     I  was  there  alone  with  it, 

—  witness  an'  judge  an'  jury  ;  I  worked  up  my 
own  case.     Manslaughter  with  extenuatin'  circum 
stances,  I  made  it  —  though  he  was  more  beast 
than  man.    I  give  myself  the  outside  penalty,  —  im 
prisonment  for  life.     And  I  been  working  out  my 
sentence  ever  since.     The  Western  country  wa'n't 
home  to  me  then  —  more  like  a  big  prison.     It 's 
been  my  prison  these  twenty -odd  years,  while  your 
mother  was  enjoying  what  belonged  to  her,  and 
making  a  splendid  job  of  your  education.     If  I  had 
let  things  alone  I  might  have  finished  my  time  out : 

125 


THE   DESERT  AND   THE   SOWN 

but  I  did  n't,  and  now  the  rest  of  it 's  commuted 
—  for  the  life  of  my  son  !  " 

"  Don't  put  it  that  way !  I  am  no  lamb  of  sac 
rifice.  Why,  how  can  we  let  things  alone  in  this 
world !  Should  I  have  stood  off  from  this  secret 
and  never  asked  my  father  for  his  defense  ?  " 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  a  boy  like  you  can  take 
hold  of  this  thing  and  understand  it  ?  " 

"  I  can,"  said  Paul.  "  I  could  almost  tell  the 
story  myself." 

"  Put  it  up  then !  "  said  the  packer.  The  fascina 
tion  of  confession  was  strong  upon  him. 

"  You  had  been  out  in  the  mountains  —  how 
long  ?  " 

"  Two  days  and  three  nights,  just  as  I  left 
camp." 

"  You  were  crazed  with  anxiety  for  us.  You 
came  back  to  find  your  camp  empty,  the  wife  and 
baby  gone.  You  had  reason  to  distrust  the  keeper. 
Not  for  what  he  did  —  for  what  you  knew  he 
meant  to  do." 

"  For  what  he  meant  and  tried  to  do.  I  seen 
it  in  his  eye.  The  devil  that  wanted  him  incited 
him  to  play  with  me  and  tell  me  lies  about  my  wife. 
She  scorned  the  brute  and  he  took  his  mean  re 
venge.  He  kep'  back  her  letter,  and  he  says  to 
126 


THE   BLOOD-WITE 

me,  leerin'  at  me  out  of  his  wicked  eyes,  'Your 
livestock  seems  to  be  the  strayin'  kind.  The  man 
she  went  off  with  give  me  that,'  —  he  lugged  a  gold 
piece  out  of  his  clothes  and  showed  me,  — '  give  me 
that,'  he  says, '  to  keep  it  quiet.'  He  kep'  it  quiet ! 
Half  starved  and  sick 's  I  was,  the  strength  was  in 
me.  But  vengeance  in  the  hand  of  a  man,  it  cuts 
both  ways,  my  son  !  His  bunk  had  a  sharp  edge 
to  it  like  this.  He  fell  acrost  it  with  my  weight 
on  top  of  him  and  he  never  raised  up  again.  There 
was  n't  a  mark  on  him.  His  back  was  broke.  He 
died  slow,  his  eyes  mocking  me. 

" '  You  fool,'  he  says.  '  Go  look  in  that  coat 
hangin'  on  the  wall.'  I  found  her  letter  there  in 
side  of  one  from  Granger.  He  watched  me  read  it 
and  he  laughed.  '  Now,  go  tell  her  you  've  killed 
a  man  ! '  He  knew  I  did  n't  come  of  a  killin'  breed. 
There  was  four  hours  to  think  it  over.  Four  hours  ! 
I  thought  hard,  I  tell  you  !  'T  was  six  of  one  and 
half  a  dozen  of  t'  other  'twixt  him  and  me,  but  I 
worked  it  back  'n'  forth  a  good  long  while  aboiit 
her.  First,  taking  her  away  from  her  father,  an 
old  man  whose  bread  I  'd  eat.  She  was  like  a  child 
of  my  own  raising.  I  always  had  felt  mean  about 
that.  We  'd  had  bad  luck  from  the  start,  —  my 
luck,  —  and  now  disgrace  to  cap  it  all.  Whether 
127 


THE   DESERT  AND  THE   SOWN 

I  hid  it  or  told  her  and  stood  my  trial,  I  'd  never 
be  a  free  man  again.  There  he  lay  I  And  a  sin 
done  in  secret,  it 's  like  a  drop  of  nitric  acid :  it 's 
going  to  eat  its  way  out  —  and  in ! 

"  I  knew  she  'd  have  friends  enough,  once  she 
was  quit  of  me.  That  was  the  case  between  us. 
The  thing  that  hurt  me  most  was  to  put  her  letter 
back  where  I  found  it,  and  leave  it,  there  with  him. 
Her  little  cry  to  me  —  and  I  could  n't  come  !  I 
read  the  words  over  and  over,  I  've  said  'em  to  my 
self  ever  since.  I  Ve  lived  on  them.  But  I  had 
to  leave  the  letter  there  to  show  I  'd  never  come 
back.  I  put  it  back  after  he  was  dead. 

"  The  sins  of  the  parents  shall  be  visited,  — 
when  it 's  in  the  blood  !  But  I  declare  to  the 
Almighty,  murder  wa'n't  in  my  blood  !  It  come 
on  me  like  a  stroke  of  lightning  hits  a  tree,  and  I 
had  a  clear  show  to  fall  alone. 

"  That 's  the  answer.  Maybe  I  did  n't  see  all 
sides  of  it,  but  there  never  was  no  opening  to  do 
different,  after  that  night.  Now,  you  've  had  an 
education.  I  should  be  glad  to  hear  your  way  of 
looking  at  it  ?  " 

"  I  should  think  you  might  stand  your  trial,  now, 
before  any  judge  or  jury,  in  this  world  or  the 
next,"  Paul  answered. 

128 


THE   BLOOD-WITE 

"  There  is  only  one  Judge."  The  packer  smiled 
a  beautiful  quiet  smile  that  covered  a  world  of 
meanings.  "  What  a  man  re'ly  wants,  if  he  'd 
own  up  it,  is  a  leetle  shade  of  partiality.  Maybe 
that 's  what  we  're  all  going  to  need,  before  we  git 
through." 

Paul  was  glad  to  be  saved  the  necessity  of  speech, 
and  he  felt  the  swift  discernment  with  which  the 
packer  resumed  his  usual  manner.  "  Got  any  more 
of  that  stuff  you  call  soup  ?  Divide  even !  I 
won't  be  made  no  baby  of." 

"  We  might  as  well  finish  it  up.  It 's  hardly 
worth  making  two  bites  of  a  cherry." 

"  Call  this  '  cherry  ' !  It 's  been  a  good  while  on 
the  bough.  What 's  it  mostly  made  of  ?  " 

"  Rind  of  bacon,  snow  water,  — plenty  of  water, 
—  and  a  tablespoonful  of  rice." 

"  Good  work !  Hungry  folks  can  live  on  what 
the  full  bellies  throw  away." 

"  Oh,  I  can  save.  But  there  comes  a  time  when 
you  can't  live  by  saving  what  you  have  n't  got." 

"That's  right!  Well,  let's  talk,  then,  before 
the  bacon-rind  fades  out  of  us." 

The  packer's  face  and  voice,  his  whole  manner, 
showed  the  joy  of  a  soul  that  has  found  relief. 
Paul  was  not  trying  now  to  behave  dutifully; 
129 


THE  DESERT  AND  THE   SOWN 

they  were  man  to  man  once  more.  The  quaint, 
subdued  humor  asserted  itself,  and  the  narrator's 
speech  flowed  on  in  the  homely  dialect  which  ex 
pressed  the  man. 

"I  stayed  out  all  that  winter,  workin'  towards 
the  coast.  One  day,  along  in  March,  I  fetched  a 
charcoal  burner's  camp,  and  the  critter  took  me  in 
and  nursed  my  frost-bites  and  did  n't  ask  110  ques 
tions,  nor  I  of  him.  We  struck  up  a  trade,  my 
drivin'  stock,  mostly  skin  and  bone,  for  a  show  in 
his  business.  He  wa'n't  gettin'  rich  at  it,  that 
was  as  plain  as  the  hip  bones  on  my  mules.  I 
kep'  in  the  woods,  cuttin'  timber  and  teiidin'  kiln, 
and  he  hauled  and  did  the  sellin'.  Next  year  he 
went  below  to  Portland  and  brought  home  small 
pox  with  him.  It  broke  out  on  him  on  the  road. 
He  was  a  terrible  sick  man.  I  buried  him,  and 
waited  for  my  turn.  It  did  n't  come.  I  seemed 
kind  o'  insured.  I  've  been  in  lots  of  trouble  since 
then,  but  nothing  ever  touched  me  till  now.  I 
banked  on  it  too  strong,  though.  I  sure  did  !  My 
pardner  was  just  such  another  lone  bird  like  me. 
If  he  had  any  folks  of  his  own  he  kep'  still  about 
them.  So  I  took  his  name  —  whether  it  was  his 
name  there  's  no  knowing.  Guess  I  've  took  full 
as  good  care  of  it  as  he  would.  '  Hagar  ? '  folk 
130 


THE   BLOOD-WITE 

would  say,  sort  o'  lookin'  me  over.  'You  ain't 
Jim  Hagar.'  No,  but  I  was  John,  and  they  let  it 
go  at  that. 

"  I  heard  of  your  mother  that  summer,  from  a 
prospector  who  came  up  past  my  camp.  He  'd 
wintered  in  Mountain  Home.  He  told  me  my 
own  story,  the  way  they  had  it  down  there,  and 
what  straits  your  mother  was  in.  I  had  scraped 
up  quite  a  few  dollars  by  then,  and  was  thinking 
how  I  'd  shove  it  into  a  bank  like  an  old  debt 
coming  to  Adam  Bogardus.  I  was  studying  how 
I  was  going  to  rig  it.  There  was  n't  any  one  who 
knew  me  down  there,  so  I  felt  safe  to  ventur'  a 
few  inquiries.  What  I  heard  was  that  she  'd  gone 
home  to  her  folks  and  was  as  well  off  as  anybody 
need  be.  That  broke  me  all  up  at  first.  I  must 
have  had  a  sneakin'  notion  that  maybe  some  day  I 
could  see  my  way  to  go  back  to  her,  but  that  let 
me  out  completely.  I  quit  then,  and  I  've  stayed 
quit.  The  only  break  I  made  was  showin'  up 
here  at  the  'leventh  hour,  thinking  I  could  be  some 
use  to  my  son  !  " 

"  It  was  to  be,"  said  Paul.  "  For  years  our 
lives  have  been  shaping  towards  this  meeting. 
There  were  a  thousand  chances  against  it.  Yet 
here  we  are  !  " 

131 


THE   DESERT  AND  THE   SOWN 

"  Here  we  are !  "  the  packer  repeated  soberly. 
*'  But  don't  think  that  I  lay  any  of  my  foolishness 
on  the  Almighty !  Maybe  it  was  meant  my  son 
should  close  my  eyes,  but  it 's  too  dear  at  the 
price.  Anybody  would  say  so,  I  don't  care  who." 

"  But  aside  from  the  '  price,'  is  it  something  to 
you?" 

"  More  —  more  than  I  Ve  got  words  to  say. 
And  yet  it  grinds  me,  every  breath  I  take !  Not 
that  I  wish  you  'd  done  different  —  you  could  n't 
and  be  a  man.  I  knew  it  even  when  I  was  kickin' 
against  it.  Oh,  well !  It  ain't  no  use  to  kick.  I 
thought  I  'd  learned  something,  but  I  ain't  — 
learned —  a  thing !  " 


132 


xm 

CURTAIN 

A  GREATER  freedom  followed  this  confession, 
7~V  as  was  natural.  It  became  the  basis  for 
lighter  confidences  and  bits  of  autobiography  that 
came  to  the  surface  easily  after  this  tremendous 
effort  at  sincerity.  Paul  found  that  he  could  speak 
even  of  the  family  past,  into  which  by  degrees  he 
began  to  fit  the  real  man  in  place  of  that  bu 
colic  abstraction  which  had  walked  the  fields  of 
fancy.  He  had  never  dared  to  actuate  the  "hired 
man,"  his  father,  on  a  basis  of  fact.  He  knew 
the  speech  and  manners  of  the  class  from  which  he 
came,  —  knew  men  of  that  class,  and  talked  with 
them  every  summer  at  Stone  Ridge ;  but  he  had 
brooded  so  deeply  over  the  tragic  and  sentimental 
side  of  his  father's  fate  as  to  have  lost  sight  of  the 
fact  that  he  was  a  man. 

Reality  has  its  own  convincing  charm,  not  incon 
sistent  with  plainness  or  even  with  commonness. 
To  know  it  is  to  lose  one's  taste  for  toys  of  the 
133 


THE  DESERT  AND  THE   SOWN 

imagination.  Paul,  at  last,  could  look  back  almost 
with  a  sense  of  humor  at  the  doll-like  progenitor 
he  had  played  with  so  long.  But  when  it  came  to 
placing  the  real  man,  Adam  Bogardus,  beside  that 
real  woman,  once  his  wife,  their  son  could  but  own 
with  awe  that  there  is  mercy  in  extinction,  after 
all ;  in  the  chance,  however  it  may  come  to  us,  for 
slipping  off  those  cruel  disguises  that  life  weaves 
around  us. 

In  the  strange,  wakeful  nights,  full  of  starvation 
dreams,  he  saw  his  mother  as  she  would  look  on 
state  occasions  in  the  hostess's  place  at  her  luxu 
rious  table ;  the  odor  of  flowers,  the  smell  of  meats 
and  wines,  tantalized  and  sickened  him.  Christine 
would  come  in  her  dancing  frocks,  always  laughing, 
greedy  in  her  mirth ;  but  Moya,  face  to  face,  he 
could  never  see.  It  was  torture  to  feel  her  near 
him,  a  disembodied  embrace.  Passionate  pane 
gyrics  and  hopeless  adjurations  he  would  pour  out 
to  that  hovering  loveliness  just  beyond  his  reach. 
The  agony  of  frustration  would  waken  him,  if  in 
deed  it  were  sleep  that  dissolved  his  consciousness, 
and  he  would  be  irritable  if  spoken  to. 

The  packer  broke  in,  one  morning,  on  these  un 
nerving  dreams.     "  You  would  n't  happen  to  have 
a  picture  of  her  along  with  you  ?  " 
134 


CURTAIN 

Paul  stared  at  him. 

"  No,  of  course  you  would  n't !  And  I  'd  be  'most 
afeard  to  look  at  it,  if  you  had.  She  must  have 
changed  considerable.  Time  hasn't  stood  still 
with  her  any  more  than  the  rest  of  us." 

"  I  have  no  picture  of  my  mother,"  Paul  replied. 

The  packer  saw  that  his  question  had  jarred  ; 
he  had  waited  weeks  to  ask  it.  He  passed  it  off 
now  with  one  of  his  homely  similes.  "  If  you  was 
to  break  a  cup  clean  in  two,  and  put  the  halves 
together  again  while  the  break  was  fresh,  they  'd 
knit  so  you  would  n't  hardly  see  a  crack.  But  you 
take  one  half  and  set  it  in  the  chainy  closet  and 
chuck  the  other  half  out  on  the  ash-heap, — them 
halves  won't  look  much  like  pieces  of  the  same  cup, 
come  a  year  or  two.  The  edges  won't  jine  no  more 
than  the  lips  of  an  old  cut  that 's  healed  without 
stitches.  No  ;  married  folks  they  grow  together  or 
they  grow  apart,  and  they  're  a-doing  of  the  one 
or  the  other  every  minute  of  the  time,  breaks  or 
no  breaks.  Does  she  go  up  to  the  old  place  sum 
mers?" 

"  Not  lately,  except  on  business,"  said  Paul.    "  A 
company  was  formed  to  open  slate  quarries  on  the 
upper  farm,  a  good  many  years  ago.     They  are 
worth  more  than  all  the  land  forty  times  over." 
135 


THE  DESERT  AND   THE   SOWN 

"  I  always  said  so ;  always  told  the  old  man  he 
had  a  gold  mine  in  that  ridge.  Was  this  before 
he  died?" 

"  Long  after.  It  was  my  mother's  scheme 
mainly.  She  controls  it  now.  She  is  a  very 
strong  business  woman." 

"  She  got  her  training,  likely,  from  that  uncle 
in  New  York.  He  had  the  business  head.  The 
old  man  had  no  more  contrivance  than  one  of  the 
bulls  in  his  pastures.  He  could  lock  horns  and 
stay  there,  but  it  wa'n't  no  trouble  to  outflank 
him.  More  than  once  his  brother  Jacob  got  to 
the  windward  of  him  in  a  bargain.  He  was  made 
a  good  deal  like  his  own  land.  Winters  of  frost 
it  took  to  break  up  that  ground,  and  sun  and  rain 
to  meller  it,  and  then  'twas  a  hatful  of  soil  to  a 
cartful  of  stone.  The  plough  would  jump  the 
furrows  if  you  drew  it  deep.  My  arms  used  to 
ache  as  if  they  'd  been  pounded,  with  the  jar  of 
them  stones.  They  used  to  tell  us  children  a  story 
how  Satan,  he  flew  over  the  earth  a-sowing  it  with 
rocks  and  stones,  and  as  he  was  passing  over  our 
county  a  hole  bu'st  through  his  leather  apron  and 
he  lost  his  whole  load  right  slam  there.  I  could 
'a'  p'inted  out  the  very  spot  where  the  heft  on  it 
fell.  Ten  Stone  meadow,  so-called.  Ten  million 
136 


CURTAIN 

stone !  I  was  pickin'  stone  in  that  field  all  of  one 
summer  when  I  was  fifteen  year  old.  We  built  a 
mile  of  fence  with  it. 

44  Them  quarries  must  have  brought  a  mint  of 
money  into  the  country.  Different  sort  of  labor, 
too.  Well,  the  world  grows  richer  and  poorer 
every  year.  More  difference  every  year  between 
the  way  rich  folks  and  poor  folks  live.  I  wouldn't 
know  where  I  belonged,  't  ain't  likely,  if  I  was  to 
go  back  there.  I  'd  be  way  off !  One  while  I 
used  to  think  a  good  deal  about  going  back,  just 
to  take  a  look  around.  It  comes  over  me  lately 
like  hunger  and  thirst.  I  think  about  the  most 
curious  things  when  I'm  asleep  —  foolish,  like  a 
child !  I  can  smell  all  the  good  home  smells  of  a 
frosty  morning :  apple  pomace,  steaming  in  the 
barnyard  ;  sausage  frying ;  Becky  scouring  the  brass 
furnace-kittle  with  salt  and  vinegar.  Killin'  time, 
you  know  —  makes  you  think  of  boiling  souse  and 
head-cheese.  You  ever  eat  souse  ?  "  The  packer 
sucked  in  his  breath  with  a  lean  smile.  "  It  ain't 
best  to  dwell  on  it.  But  you  can't  help  your 
self,  at  night.  I  can  smell  Becky's  fresh  bread,  in 
my  dreams,  just  out  of  the  brick  oven.  Never  eat 
bread  cooked  in  a  stove  till  I  came  out  here.  I 
never  drunk  any  water  like  that  spring  on  the  ridge. 
137 


THE   DESERT   AND   THE   SOWN 

Last  night  I  was  back  there,  and  the  maples  were 
all  yellow  like  sunshine.  Once  it  was  spring,  and 
apple-blooms  up  in  the  hill  orchard.  And  little 
Emmy,  a-setting  on  the  fence,  with  her  bunnit 
throwed  back  on  her  neck.  '  Addy ! '  she  called, 
way  across  the  lot ;  '  Addy,  come,  help  me  down  ! ' 
She  was  a  master  hand  for  venturin'  up  on  places, 
but  she  didn't  like  the  gettin'  down. 

"  Well,  she  's  learned  the  ups  and  downs  by 
this  time.  She  don't  need  Addy  to  help  her.  I  'd 
have  helped  a  big  sight  more  if  I  had  kep'  my 
distance.  It 's  a  thing  so  con-denmed  foolish  and 
unnecessary  —  I  can't  be  reconciled  to  it  noway !  " 

"You  see  only  one  side  of  it,"  said  Paul. 
Unspeakable  thoughts  had  kept  pace  with  his 
father's  words.  "  Nothing  that  happens,  happens 
through  us  —  or  to  us  —  alone.  There  was  a  girl 
I  knew,  outside.  She  was  as  happy,  when  I  knew 
her  first,  as  you  say  my  mother  used  to  be.  Then 
she  met  some  one  —  a  man  —  and  the  shadow  of 
his  life  crossed  hers.  He  would  have  wrapped 
her  up  in  it  and  put  out  her  sunshine  if  he  had 
stayed  in  the  same  world.  Now  she  can  be  her 
self  again,  after  a  while.  It  cannot  take  long  to 
forget  a  person  you  have  known  only  a  little  over 
a  year." 

138 


CURTAIN 

The  packer  rose  on  one  elbow.  He  reached 
across  and  shook  his  son. 

"  Where  is  that  girl  ?  Answer  me !  Take  your 
face  out  of  your  hands  !  " 

"  At  Bisuka  Barracks.  She  is  the  command 
ant's  daughter.  I  came  out  to  marry  her." 

"  What  possessed  ye  not  to  tell  me  ?  " 

"  Why  should  I  tell  you  ?  We  buried  the 
wedding-day  months  back,  in  the  snow." 

"  Boy,  boy !  "  the  packer  groaned. 

"  What  difference  can  it  make  now?  " 

"  All  the  difference  —  all  the  difference  there 
is  !  I  thought  you  were  out  here  touring  it  with 
them  fool  boys  and  they  were  all  the  chance  you 
had  for  help  outside.  You  suppose  her  father  is 
going  to  see  her  git  left  ?  They  '11  get  in  here, 
if  they  have  to  crawl  on  their  bellies  or  climb 
through  the  tree-limbs.  They  know  how  !  And 
we  've  wasted  the  grub  and  talked  like  a  couple  of 
women !  " 

"  Oh,  don't  —  don't  torment  me !  "  Paul  groaned. 
"  It  was  all  over.  Can't  you  leave  the  dead  in 
peace !  " 

"  We  are  not  the  dead !  I  'most  wish  we  were. 
Boy,  I  've  got  a  big  word  to  say  to  you  about  that. 
Come  closer  !  "  The  packer's  speech  hoarsened 
139 


THE   DESERT  AND  THE  SOWN 

and  failed.  They  could  only  hear  each  other 
breathe.  Then  it  seemed  to  the  packer  that  his 
was  the  only  breath  in  the  darkness.  He  listened. 
A  faint  cheer  arose  in  the  forest  and  a  crashing  of 
the  dead  underlimbs  of  the  pines. 

He  turned  frantically  upon  his  son,  but  no 
pledge  could  be  extorted  now.  Paul's  lips  were 
closed.  He  had  lost  consciousness. 


140 


XIV 
KIND  INQUIRIES 

THE  colonel's  drawing-room  was  as  hot  as 
usual  the  first  hour  after  dinner,  and  as  usual 
it  was  full  of  kindly  participant  neighbors  who 
had  dropped  in  to  repeat  their  congratulations  on 
the  good  news,  now  almost  a  week  old.  Mrs.  Bo- 
gardus  had  not  come  down,  and,  though  asked 
after  by  all,  the  talk  was  noticeably  freer  for  her 
absence. 

Mrs.  Creve,  in  response  to  a  telegram  from  her 
brother,  had  arrived  from  Fort  Sherman  on  the 
day  before,  prepared  for  anything,  from  frozen  feet 
to  a  wedding.  She  had  spent  the  afternoon  in 
town  doing  errands  for  Moya,  and  being  late  for 
dinner  had  not  changed  her  dress.  There  never 
was  such  a  "  natural  "  person  as  aunt  Annie.  At 
present  she  was  addressing  the  company  at  large, 
as  if  they  were  all  her  promising  children. 

"  Nobody  talks  about  their  star  in  these  days. 
I  used  to  have  a  star.  I  forget  which  it  was.  I 
141 


THE  DESERT  AND  THE   SOWN 

know  it  was  a  pretty  lucky  one.  Now  I  trust  in 
Providence  and  the  major  and  wear  thick  shoes." 
She  exhibited  the  shoes,  a  particularly  large  and 
sensible  kind  which  she  imported  from  the  East. 
Everybody  laughed  and  longed  to  embrace  her. 
"  Has  Moya  got  a  star  ?  "  she  asked  seriously. 

"  The  whole  galaxy ! "  a  male  voice  replied. 
"  Does  n't  the  luck  prove  it  ?  " 

"  Moya  has  got  a  '  temperament,'  "  said  Doctor 
Fleming,  the  Post  surgeon.  "  That 's  as  good  as 
having  a  star.  You  know  there  are  persons  who 
attract  misfortune  just  as  sickly  children  catch  all 
the  diseases  that  are  going.  I  knew  that  boy  was 
sure  to  be  found.  Anything  of  Moya's  would 
be." 

"  So  you  think  it  was  Moya's  '  temperament ' 
that  pulled  him  out  of  the  snow  ?  "  said  the  colo 
nel,  wheeling  his  chair  into  the  discussion. 

"  How  about  Mr.  Winslow's  temperament  ?  I 
prefer  to  leave  a  little  of  the  credit  to  him,"  said 
Moya  sweetly. 

A  young  officer,  who  had  been  suffering  in  the 
corner  by  the  fire,  jumped  to  his  feet  and  bowed, 
then  blushed  and  sat  down  again,  regretting  his 
rashness.  Moya  continued  to  look  at  him  with 
steadfast  friendliness.  Winslow  had  led  the  res- 
142 


KIND   INQUIRIES 

cue  that  brought  her  lover  home.  A  glow  of 
sympathy  united  these  friends  and  neighbors  ;  the 
air  was  electrical  and  full  of  emotion. 

"  I  suppose  no  date  has  been  fixed  for  the  wed 
ding?"  Mrs.  Dawson,  on  the  divan,  murmured  to 
Mrs.  Creve,  The  latter  smiled  a  non-committal 
assent. 

"  I  should  think  they  would  just  put  the  doctor 
aside  and  be  married  anyhow.  My  husband  says 
he  ought  to  go  to  a  warmer  climate  at  once." 

"  My  dear,  a  young  man  can't  be  married  in  his 
dressing-gown  and  slippers !  " 

"  No !     It 's  not  as  bad  as  that  ?  " 

"  Well,  not  quite.  He  's  up  and  dressed  and 
walks  about,  but  he  does  n't  come  down  to  his  meals, 
—  he  can  eat  so  very  little  at  a  time,  and  it  tires 
him  to  sit  through  a  dinner.  It  is  n't  one  of  those 
ravenous  recoveries.  It  went  too  far  with  him  for 
that." 

"  His  mother  was  perfectly  magnificent  through 
it  all,  they  say." 

"  Have  you  seen  much  of  Mrs.  Bogardus  ?  " 

"  No  ;  we  left  them  alone,  poor  things,  when  the 

pinch  came.     But  I  used  to  see  her  walking  the 

porch,  up  and  down,  up  and  down.     Moya  would 

go  off  on  the  hills.     They  could  n't  walk  together ! 

143 


THE   DESERT  AND   THE   SOWN 

That  was  after  Miss  Chrissy  went  home.  Her 
mother  took  her  back,  you  know,  and  then  returned 
alone.  Perfectly  heroic !  They  say  she  dressed 
every  evening  for  dinner  as  carefully  as  if  she  were 
in  New  York,  and  led  the  conversation.  She  used 
to  make  Moya  read  aloud  to  her  —  history,  novels 
—  anything  to  pretend  they  were  not  thinking. 
The  strain  must  have  begun  before  any  of  us  knew. 
The  colonel  kept  it  so  quiet.  What  is  the  dear 
man  doing  with  your  bonnet  ?  " 

The  colonel  had  plucked  his  sister's  walking-hat, 
a  pert  piece  of  millinery  froward  in  feathers,  from 
the  trunk  of  the  headless  Victory,  where  she  had 
reposed  it  in  her  haste  before  dinner. 

"  Must  n't  be  disrespectful  to  the  household  Lar," 
he  kindly  reminded  her. 

"  Where  am  I  to  put  my  hats,  then  ?  I  shall 
wear  them  on  my  head  and  come  down  to  break 
fast  in  them.  Moya,  dear,  will  you  please  rescue 
my  hat  ?  Put  it  anywhere,  dear,  —  under  your 
chair.  There  is  not  really  a  place  in  this  house 
to  put  a  thing.  A  wedding  that  goes  off  on  time 
is  bad  enough,  but  one  that  hangs  on  from  month 
to  month  —  and  doesn't  even  take  care  of  its 
clothes !  Forgive  me,  dear !  The  clothes  are  very 
pretty.  I  open  a  bureau-drawer  to  put  away  my 
144 


KIND   INQUIRIES 

middle-aged  bonnet  —  a  puff  of  violets !  A  pile  of 
something  white,  and,  behold,  a  wedding  veil! 
There  is  n't  a  hook  in  the  closet  that  does  n't  say, 
«  Standing-room  only,'  and  the  standing-room  is  all 
stood  on  by  a  regiment  of  new  shoes." 

"  My  dear  woman,  go  light  on  our  sore  spots. 
We  are  only  just  out  of  the  woods." 

"  Is  n't  it  bad  to  coddle  your  sore  spots,  Doctor  ? 
Like  a  saddle-gall,  ride  them  down  !  "  Mrs.  Creve 
and  Dr.  Fleming  exchanged  a  friendly  smile  on 
the  strength  of  this  nonsense.  On  the  doctor's 
side  it  covered  a  suspicion  :  "  '  The  lady,  methinks, 
protests  too  much '  !  "  The  colonel,  too,  was  rest 
less,  and  Moya's  sweet  color  came  and  went.  She 
appeared  to  be  listening  for  steps  or  sounds  from 
some  other  part  of  the  house. 

The  men  all  rose  now  as  Mrs.  Bogardus  entered ; 
one  or  two  of  the  ladies  rose  also,  compelled  by 
something  in  her  look  certainly  not  intended.  She 
was  careful  to  greet  everybody ;  she  even  crossed 
the  room  and  gave  her  hand  to  Lieutenant  Wins- 
low,  whom  she  had  not  seen  since  the  night  of  his 
return.  The  doctor  she  casually  passed  over  with 
a  bow ;  they  had  met  before  that  day.  It  was  in 
the  mind  of  each  person  present  not  of  the  family, 
and  excepting  the  doctor,  to  ask  her :  '  How  is 
145 


THE   DESERT   AND   THE   SOWN 

your  son  this  evening  ? '     But  for  some  reason  the 
inquiry  did  not  come  off. 

The  company  began  suddenly  to  feel  itself  de  trop. 
Mrs.  Dawson,  who  had  come  under  the  doctor's 
escort,  glanced  at  him,  awaiting  the  moment  when 
it  would  do  to  make  the  first  move. 

"  I  hear  you  lost  a  patient  from  the  hospital 
yesterday  ?  "  said  Lieutenant  Winslow,  at  the  doc 
tor's  side. 

"From,  did  you  say  ?  That 's  right !  He  was 
to  have  been  operated  on  to-day."  The  doctor 
shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"What!" 

"  Two  broken  ribs.  One  grown  fast  to  the 
lung." 

"Wh-ew!" 

"  He  just  walked  out.  Said  I  had  ordered  him 
to  have  fresh  air.  There  was  a  new  hall-boy,  a 
greenhorn." 

"  He  can't  go  far  in  that  shape,  can  he  ?  " 

"  Oh,  there  's  no  telling.  The  constitution  of 
those  men  is  beyond  anything.  You  can't  kill  him. 
He  '11  suffer  of  course,  suffer  like  an  animal,  and 
die  like  one  —  away  from  the  herd.  Maybe  not 
this  time,  though." 

"  Was  he  afraid  of  the  operation  ?  " 
146 


KIND   INQUIRIES 

"I  can't  say.  He  did  not  seem  to  be  either 
afraid  or  anxious  for  help.  Not  used  to  being 
helped.  He  would  be  taken  to  the  Sisters'  Hos 
pital.  Would  n't  come  up  here  as  the  guest  of  the 
Post,  not  a  bit !  I  believe  from  the  first  he  meant 
to  give  us  the  slip,  and  take  his  chance  in  his  own 
way." 

"  Did  you  hear,"  —  Mrs.  Creve  spoke  up  from 
the  opposite  side  of  the  room  under  that  hypnotic 
influence  by  which  a  dangerous  topic  spreads,  — 
"  did  you  hear  about  the  poor  guide  who  ran  away 
from  the  hospital  to  escape  from  our  wicked  doc 
tor  here?  What  a  reputation  you  must  have, 
Doctor !  " 

"  All  talk,  my  dear ;  town  gossip,"  said  the  colo 
nel.  "  You  gave  him  his  discharge,  did  n't  you, 
Doctor  ?  "  The  colonel  looked  hard  at  the  medical 
officer ;  he  had  prepared  the  way  for  a  statement 
suited  to  a  mixed  company,  including  ladies.  But 
Doctor  Fleming  stated  things  usually  to  suit  him 
self. 

"  There  was  a  man  who  left  the  Sisters'  Hospital 
rather  informally  yesterday.  I  won't  say  he  is  not 
just  as  well  off  to-day  as  if  he  had  stayed." 

"  Who  was  it  ?     Was  it  our  man,  father  ?  " 

"  The  doctor  has  more  than  one  patient  at  the 
147 


THE   DESERT  AND   THE   SOWN 

hospital."  Colonel  Middleton  looked  reproach 
fully  at  the  doctor,  who  continued  to  put  aside  as 
childish  these  clumsy  subterfuges.  "  I  think  you 
ladies  frightened  him  away  with  your  attentions. 
He  knew  he  was  under  heavy  liabilities  for  all 
your  flowers  and  fancy  cookery." 

"  Attentions  !  Are  we  going  to  let  him  die  on 
the  road  somewhere  ?  "  cried  Moya. 

"  Miss  Moya  ?  "  Lieutenant  Winslow  spoke  up 
with  a  mixture  of  embarrassment  and  resolution  to 
be  heard,  though  every  voice  in  the  room  conspired 
against  him.  "  Those  men  are  a  big  fraternity. 
They  have  their  outfitting  places  where  they  put 
in  for  repairs.  Packer  John  had  his  blankets  sent 
to  the  Green  Meadow  corral.  They  know  him 
there.  They  say  he  had  money  at  one  of  the  stores. 
They  all  have  a  little  money  cached  here  and  there. 
And  they  can't  get  lost,  you  know  !  " 

Moya's  eyes  shone  with  a  suspicious  brightness. 

"  '  When  the  forest  shall  mislead  me  ; 
When  the  night  and  morning  lie.'  " 

She  turned  her  swimming  eyes  upon  Paul's  mother, 
who  would  be  sure  to  remember  the  quotation. 

Mrs.  Bogardus  remained  perfectly  still,  her  lips 
slightly  parted.     She  grew  very  pale.     Then  she 
rose  and  walked  quickly  to  the  door. 
148 


KIND  INQUIRIES 

"  Just  a  breath  of  cold  air !  "  she  panted.  The 
doctor,  Moya,  and  Mrs.  Creve  had  followed  her 
into  the  hall.  Moya  placed  herself  on  the  settle 
beside  her  and  leaned  to  support  her,  but  she  sat 
back  rigidly  with  her  eyes  closed.  Mrs.  Creve 
looked  on  in  quiet  concern.  "  Let  me  take  you 
into  the  study,  Mrs.  Bogardus  !  "  the  doctor  com 
manded.  "  A  glass  of  water,  Moya,  please." 

"  How  is  she  ?  What  is  it  ?  Can  we  do  any 
thing  ? "  The  company  crowded  around  Mrs. 
Creve  on  her  return  to  the  drawing-room.  She 
glanced  at  her  brother.  There  was  no  clue  there. 
He  stood  looking  embarrassed  and  mystified.  "  It 
is  only  the  warm  welcome  we  give  our  friends," 
she  said  aloud,  smiling  calmly.  "  Mrs.  Bogardus 
found  the  room  too  hot.  I  think  I  should  have 
succumbed  myself  but  for  that  little  recess  in  the 
hall." 

The  colonel  attacked  his  fire.  He  thought  he 
was  being  played  with.  Things  were  not  right  in 
the  house,  and  no  one,  not  the  doctor,  or  even  Annie, 
was  frank  with  him.  His  kind  face  flushed  as  he 
straightened  up  to  bid  his  guests  good-night. 

"  Well,  if  it 's  not  anything  serious,  you  think. 
But  you'll  be  sure  to  let  us  know?"  said  Mrs. 
Dawson.  "  Well,  good-night,  Mrs.  Creve.  Good~ 
149 


THE   DESERT  AND  THE   SOWN 

night,  Colonel !  You  '11  say  good-night  to  Moya  ? 
Do  let  us  know  if  there  is  anything  we  can  do." 

Dr.  Fleming  was  in  the  hall  looking  for  his  cape. 
The  colonel  touched  him  on  the  shoulder.  "  Don't 
be  in  a  hurry,  Doctor.  Mrs.  Dawson  will  excuse 
you." 

"  I  don't  think  you  need  me  any  more  to-night. 
Moya  is  with  Mrs.  Bogardus.  She  is  not  ill.  The 
room  was  a  little  close." 

"Never  mind  the  room!  Come  in  here.  I 
want  a  word  with  you." 

The  doctor  laughed  oddly,  and  obeyed. 

"  Annie,  you  need  n't  leave  us." 

"  Why,  thank  you,  dear  boy !  It 's  awfully 
good  of  you,"  Annie  mocked  him.  "  But  I  must 
go  and  relieve  Moya." 

"  I  don't  believe  you  are  wanted  in  there,"  said 
Doctor  Fleming. 

"  It 's  more  than  obvious  that  I  'm  not  in  hero." 

"  Oh,  do  sit  down,"  said  the  teased  colonel. 

The  fire  sulked  and  smoked  a  trifle  with  its 
brands  apart.  Doctor  Fleming  leaned  forward 
upon  his  knees  and  regarded  it  thoughtfully. 
The  colonel  sat  fondling  the  tongs.  In  a  deep 
chair  Mrs.  Creve  lay  back  and  shaded  her  face 
with  the  end  of  her  lace  scarf.  By  her  manner  she 
150 


KIND  INQUIRIES 

might  have  been  alone  in  the  room,  yet  she  was 
keenly  observant  of  the  men,  for  she  felt  that 
developments  were  taking  place. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  your  patient  upstairs, 
Doctor  ?  "  the  colonel  began  his  cross-examination. 
Doctor  Fleming  raised  his  eyebrows. 

"  He  's  had  nothing  to  eat  to  speak  of  for  six 
weeks,  at  an  altitude  " — 

"  Yes  ;  we  know  all  that.  But  he  's  twenty-four 
years  old.  They  made  an  easy  trip  back,  and  he 
has  been  here  a  week,  nearly.  He  's  not  as  strong 
as  he  was  when  they  brought  him  in,  is  he  ?  " 

"  That  was  excitement.  You  have  to  allow  for 
the  reaction.  He  has  had  a  shock  to  the  entire 
system,  —  nerves,  digestion,  —  must  give  him  time. 
Very  nervous  temperament  too  much  controlled." 

"  Make  it  as  you  like.  But  I  'm  disappointed 
in  his  rallying  powers,  unless  you  are  keeping 
something  back.  A  boy  with  the  grit  to  do  what 
he  did,  and  stand  it  as  he  did  —  why  isn't  he 
standing  it  better  now  ?  " 

"  We  are  all  suffering  from  reaction,  I  think," 
said  Mrs.  Creve  diplomatically  ;  "  and  we  show  it 
by  making  too  much  of  little  things.  Tom,  we 
ought  n't  to  keep  the  doctor  up  here  talking  non 
sense.  He  wants  to  go  to  bed." 
151 


THE   DESERT  AND   THE   SOWN 

"  /'m  not  talking  nonsense,"  said  the  doctor. 
"  I  should  be  if  I  pretended  there  was  anything 
mysterious  about  that  boy's  case  upstairs.  He  has 
had  a  tremendous  experience,  say  what  you  will ; 
and  it 's  pulled  him  down  nervously,  and  every 
other  way.  He  is  n't  ready  or  able  to  talk  of  it 
yet.  And  he  knows  as  soon  as  he  comes  down 
there  '11  be  forty  people  waiting  to  congratulate 
him  and  ask  him  how  it  was.  I  don't  wonder  he 
fights  shy.  If  he  could  take  his  bride  by  the  hand 
and  walk  out  of  the  house  with  her  I  believe  he 
could  start  to-morrow  ;  but  if  there  must  be  a  wed 
ding  and  a  lot  of  fuss  "  — 

Mrs.  Creve  nodded  her  head  approvingly.  The 
three  had  risen  and  stood  around  the  hearth,  while 
the  colonel  put  the  brands  delicately  together  with 
the  skill  of  an  old  campaigner.  The  flames 
breathed  again. 

"  I  don't  offer  this  as  a  professional  opinion," 
said  the  doctor.  "  But  a  case  like  his  is  not  a  dis 
ease,  it 's  a  condition  "  — 

•'  Of  the  mind,  perhaps  ?  "  the  colonel  added 
significantly.  He  glanced  at  Mrs.  Creve.  "  You  've 
thought  about  that,  Doctor  ?  The  letter  his  mother 
consulted  you  about  ?  " 

"  Have  you  been  worrying  about  that,  Colonel  ? 
152 


KIND   INQUIRIES 

Why  did  n't  you  say  so  ?  There  is  nothing  in  it 
whatever.  Why,  it 's  so  plain  a  case  the  other 
way  —  any  one  can  see  where  the  animus  conies 
from  !  " 

"  Now  you  are  getting  mysterious,  and  I  'm 
going  to  bed !  "  said  Mrs.  Creve. 

"  No  ;  we  're  coming  to  the  point  now,"  said  the 
colonel. 

"  What  is  it  you  want  Bogardus  to  do  ?  "  asked 
Doctor  Fleming.  "  Want  him  to  get  up  and  walk 
out  of  the  house  as  my  patient  did  at  the  hospital  ? 
Dare  say  he  could  do  it,  but  what  then  ?  Will 
you  let  me  speak  out,  Colonel  ?  No  regard  to  any 
body's  feelings  ?  Now,  this  may  be  gossip,  but  I 
think  it  has  a  bearing  on  the  case  upstairs.  I  'm 
going  to  have  it  off  my  mind  anyhow  !  When 
Mrs.  Bogardus  came  to  see  the  guide,  —  Packer 
John,  —  day  before  yesterday,  was  it  ?  —  he  asked 
to  see  her  alone.  Said  he  had  something  particu 
lar  to  say  to  her  about  her  son.  We  thought  it 
a  queer  start,  but  she  was  willing  to  humor  him. 
Well,  she  was  n't  in  there  above  ten  minutes,  but 
in  that  time  something  passed  between  them  that 
hit  her  very  hard,  no  doubt  of  that !  Now,  Bo 
gardus  holds  his  tongue  like  a  gentleman  as  to 
what  happened  in  the  woods.  He  does  n't  men- 
153 


THE   DESERT   AND   THE   SOWN 

tion  his  comrades'  names.  And  the  packer  has  dis 
appeared  ;  so  he  can't  be  questioned.  Seems  to 
me  a  little  bird  told  me  there  was  an  attachment 
between  one  of  those  Bowen  boys  and  Miss  Chris 
tine  ? 

"  Now  we,  who  know  what  brutes  brute  fear 
will  make  of  men,  are  not  going  to  deny  that  those 
boys  behaved  badly.  There  are  some  things  that 
can't  be  acknowledged  among  men,  you  know,  if 
there  is  a  hole  to  crawl  out  of.  Cowardice  is  one 
of  them.  Well  then,  they  lied,  that 's  the  whole 
of  it.  The  little  boys  lied.  They  wrote  Mrs. 
Bogardus  a  long  letter  from  Lemhi,"  —  the  doc 
tor  was  reviewing  now  for  Mrs.  Creve's  benefit,  — 
"  when  they  first  got  out.  They  probably  judged, 
by  the  time  they  had  had,  that  Paul  and  the  packer 
would  never  tell  their  own  story.  Very  well :  it 
couldn't  hurt  Paul,  it  might  be  the  saving  of 
them,  if  they  could  show  that  something  had 
queered  him  in  the  woods.  They  asked  his  mother 
if  she  had  heard  of  the  effects  of  altitude  upon 
highly  sensitive  organizations.  They  recounted 
some  instances  —  I  will  mention  them  later.  One 
of  the  boys  is  a  lawyer,  is  n't  he  ?  They  are  a 
pair  of  ingenious  youths.  Bogardus,  they  claim, 
avoided  them  almost  from  the  time  they  entered 
154 


KIND   INQUIRIES 

the  woods,  —  almost  lived  with  the  packer,  be 
haved  like  a  crank  about  the  shooting.  Whereas 
they  had  gone  there  to  kill  things,  he  made  it  a 
personal  matter  whenever  they  pursued  this  inten 
tion  in  a  natural  and  undisguised  manner.  He  had 
pangs,  like  a  girl,  when  the  creatures  expired.  He 
hated  the  carcases,  the  blood  —  forgive  me,  Mrs. 
Creve.  In  short,  he  called  the  whole  business 
butchery." 

"  Do  you  make  that  a  sign  of  lunacy  ? "  Mrs. 
Creve  flung  in. 

"  I  am  quoting,  you  know."  The  doctor  smiled 
indulgently.  "  They  declare  that  they  offered  — 
even  begged  —  to  stay  behind  with  him,  one  of 
them,  at  least,  but  he  rejected  their  company  in  a 
manner  so  unpleasant  that  they  saw  it  would  only 
be  courting  a  quarrel  to  remain.  And  so,  treating 
him  perforce  like  a  child  or  a  lunatic  pro  tern.,  and 
having  but  little  time  to  decide  in,  they  cut  loose 
and  hurried  back  for  help.  This  is  the  tale,  com 
posed  on  reflection.  They  said  nothing  of  this 
to  Winslow  —  to  save  publicity,  of  course !  Mrs. 
Bogardus's  lips  are  doubly  sealed,  for  her  son's 
sake  and  for  the  sake  of  the  young  scamp  who  is 
to  be  her  son,  by  and  by !  I  saw  she  winced  at 
my  opinion,  which  I  gave  her  plainly  —  brutally, 
155 


THE   DESERT  AND  THE   SOWN 

perhaps.  And  she  asked  me  particularly  to  say 
nothing,  which  I  am  particularly  not  doing. 

"  This,  I  think,  you  will  find  is  the  bitter  drop 
in  the  cup  of  rejoicing  upstairs.  And  they  are 
swallowing  it  in  silence,  those  two,  for  the  sake  of 
the  little  girl  and  the  old  friends  in  New  York. 
Of  course  she  has  kept  from  Paul  that  last  shot  in 
the  back  from  those  sweet  boys !  The  packer  had 
some  unruly  testimony  he  was  bursting  with,  which 
he  had  sense  enough  to  keep  for  her  alone,  and  she 
doesn't  want  the  case  to  spread.  It  is  singular 
how  a  man  in  his  condition  could  get  out  of  the 
way  as  suddenly  as  he  did.  You  might  think  he  'd 
been  taken  up  in  a  cloud." 

"  Doctor,  what  do  you  mean  by  such  an  insinua 
tion  as  that?" 

"  Colonel,  have  I  insinuated  anything  ?  Did  I 
say  she  had  oiled  the  wheels  of  his  departure  ?  " 

"  Come,  come !     You  go  too  far !  " 

"  Not  at  all.  That 's  your  own  construction.  I 
merely  say  that  I  am  not  concerned  about  that 
man's  disappearance.  I  think  he  '11  be  looked 
after,  as  a  valuable  witness  should  be." 

"Well,"  the  colonel  grumbled  uneasily,  "I 
don't  like  mysteries  myself,  and  I  don't  like 
family  quarrels  nor  skeletons  at  the  feasts  of  old 
156 


KIND  INQUIRIES 

friends.  But  I  suppose  there  must  be  a  drop 
in  every  cup.  What  were  your  altitude  cases, 
Doctor?" 

"  The  same  old  ones  ;  poor  Addison,  you  know. 
All  those  stories  they  tell  an  Easterner.  As  I 
pointed  out  to  Mrs.  Bogardus,  in  every  case  there 
was  some  predisposing  cause.  Addison  had  been 
too  long  in  the  mountains,  and  he  was  frightfully 
overworked  ;  short  of  company  officers.  He  came 
to  me  about  an  insect  he  said  had  got  into  his  ear ; 
buzzed,  and  bothered  him  day  and  night.  The 
story  got  to  the  men's  quarters.  They  joked  about 
the  colonel's  'bug.'  I  knew  it  was  no  joke.  I 
condemned  him  for  duty,  but  the  Sioux  were  out. 
They  thought  at  Washington  no  one  but  Addison 
could  handle  an  Indian  campaign.  He  was  on  the 
ground,  too.  So  they  sent  him  up  higher  where  it 
was  dry,  with  a  thousand  men  in  his  hands.  I 
knew  he  'd  be  a  madman  or  a  dead  man  in  a 
month !  There  were  a  good  many  of  the  dead ! 
By  Jove !  The  boys  who  took  his  orders  and 
loved  the  old  fellow  and  knew  he  was  sending  them 
to  their  death  !  Well  for  him  that  he  '11  never 
know." 

"  The  '  altitude  of  heartbreak,' "  sighed  Mrs. 
Creve.  The  phrase  was  her  own,  for  many  a  rea- 
157 


THE  DESERT  AND   THE   SOWN 

son  deeply  known  unto  herself,  but  she  gave  it  the 
effect  of  a  quotation  before  the  men. 

"  Then  you  think  there  is  no  '  altitude '  in 
ours  ?  " 

"  No  ;  nor  '  heartbreak '  either,"  said  the  doctor, 
helping  himself  to  one  of  the  colonel's  cigars. 
"  But  I  don't  say  there  is  n't  enough  to  keep  a 
woman  awake  nights,  and  to  make  those  young 
men  avoid  the  sight  of  each  other  for  a  time. 
Thanks,  I  won't  smoke  now.  I  'm  going  to  take  a 
look  at  Mrs.  Bogardus  as  I  go  out." 


158 


XV 

A  BRIDEGROOM  OF  SNOW 

THE  doctor  had  taken  his  look,  feeling  a  trifle 
guilty  under  his  patient's  counter  gaze,  yet 
glad  to  have  relieved  the  good  colonel's  anxiety. 
If  he  loved  to  gossip,  at  least  he  was  particular  as 
to  whom  he  gossiped  with. 

Moya  closed  the  door  after  him  and  silently  re 
sumed  her  seat.  Mrs.  Bogardus  helped  herself  to 
a  sip  of  water.  She  was  struggling  with  a  dry 
constriction  of  the  throat,  and  Moya  protested  a 
little,  seeing  the  effort  that  it  cost  her  to  speak, 
even  in  the  hoarse,  unnatural  tone  which  was  all 
the  voice  she  had  left. 

"  I  want  to  finish  now,"  she  said,  "  and  never 
speak  of  this  again.  It  was  I  who  accused  them 
first  —  and  then  I  asked  him  :  —  if  there  was  any 
thing  he  could  say  in  their  defense,  to  say  it,  for 
Chrissy's  sake !  '  I  will  never  break  bread  with 
them  again,'  said  he,  —  '  either  Banks  or  Horace. 
I  will  not  eat  with  them,  or  drink  with  them,  or 
159 


THE   DESERT  AND  THE   SOWN 

speak  with  them  again  ! '  Think  of  it !  How  are 
we  to  live  ?  How  are  they  to  inhabit  the  same 
city  ?  He  thinks  I  have  been  weak.  I  am  weak ! 
The  only  power  I  have  is  through  —  the  property. 
Banks  will  never  marry  a  poor  girl.  But  that 
would  be  a  dear-bought  victory.  Let  her  keep 
what  faith  in  him  she  can.  No  ;  in  families,  the 
ones  who  can  control  themselves  have  to  give  in  — 
to  those  who  can't.  If  you  argue  with  Christine 
she  simply  gives  way,  and  then  she  gets  hysterical, 
and  then  she  is  ill.  It 's  a  disease.  Mothers  know 
how  their  children  —  Christine  was  marked  — 
marked  with  trouble  !  I  am  thankful  she  has  any 
mind  at  all.  She  needs  me  more  than  Paul  does. 
I  cannot  be  parted  from  my  power  to  help  her  — 
such  as  it  is." 

"  When  she  is  Banks  Bowen's  wife  she  will  need 
you  more  than  ever  !  "  said  Moya. 

"  She  will.  I  could  prevent  the  marriage,  but 
I  am  afraid  to.  I  am  afraid  !  So,  as  the  family 
is  cut  in  two  —  in  three,  for  I "  —  Mrs.  Bogar- 
dus  stopped  and  moistened  her  lips  again.  "  So  — 
I  think  you  and  Paul  had  better  make  your  ar 
rangements  and  go  as  soon  as  you  can  wherever 
it  suits  you,  without  minding  about  the  rest  of 
us." 

160 


A  BRIDEGROOM   OF   SNOW 

Moya  gave  a  little  sobbing  laugh.  "  You  don't 
expect  me  to  make  the  first  move !  " 

"  Does  n't  he  say  anything  to  you  —  anything 
at  all?" 

"  He  is  too  ill." 

"  He  is  not  ill !  "  Mrs.  Bogardus  denied  it  fiercely. 
"  Who  says  he  is  ill  ?  He  is  starved  and  frozen. 
He  is  just  out  of  the  grave.  You  must  be  good  to 
him,  Moya.  Warm  him,  comfort  him  !  You  can 
give  him  the  life  he  needs.  Your  hands  are  as 
soft  as  little  birds.  They  comfort  even  me.  Oh, 
don't  you  understand  !  " 

"  Of  course  I  understand !  "  Moya  answered, 
her  face  aflame.  "  But  I  cannot  marry  Paul.  He 
has  got  to  marry  me." 

"  What  nonsense  that  is  !  People  say  to  a  girl : 
'  You  can't  be  too  cold  before  you  are  married  or 
too  kind  after ! '  That  does  not  mean  you  and  Paul. 
If  you  are  not  kind  to  him  now,  you  will  make  a 
great  mistake." 

"  He  is  not  thinking  of  marriage,"  said  Moya. 
"  Something  weighs  on  him  all  the  time.  I  can 
not  ask  him  questions.  If  he  wanted  to  tell  me 
he  would.  That  is  why  I  come  downstairs  and 
leave  him.  But  he  won't  come  down  I  Is  it  not 
strange  ?  If  we  could  believe  such  things  I  would 
161 


THE   DESERT  AND  THE   SOWN 

say  a  Presence  came  with  him  out  of  that  place. 
It  is  with  him  when  I  find  him  alone.  It  is  in  his 
eyes  when  he  looks  at  me.  It  is  not  something  past 
and  done  with,  it  is  here  —  now  —  in  this  house  ! 
What  is  it  ?  What  do  you  believe  ?  " 

The  eyes  she  sought  to  question  hardened  under 
her  gaze.  Here,  too,  was  a  veil.  Mrs.  Bogardus  sat 
with  her  hands  clasped  in  her  lap.  She  was  motion 
less,  but  the  creaking  of  her  silks  could  be  heard 
as  her  bosom  rose  and  fell.  After  a  moment  she 
said :  "  Paul's  tray  is  on  the  table  in  the  dining- 
room.  Will  you  take  it  when  you  go  up  ?  " 

Moya  altered  her  own  manner  instantly.  "  But 
you  V  "  she  hesitated.  "  I  must  not  crowd  you  out 
of  all  your  mother  privileges.  You  have  handed 
over  everything  to  me." 

"  A  mother's  privilege  is  to  see  herself  no  longer 
needed.  I  can  do  nothing  more  for  my  son  "  — 
her  smile  was  hard — "except  take  care  of  his 
money." 

"  Paul's  mother  !  " 

"  My  dear,  do  you  suppose  we  mind  ?  It  is  a 
very  great  privilege  to  be  allowed  to  step  aside 
when  your  work  is  done." 

"  Paul's  mother  1 "  Moya  insisted. 

Mrs.  Bogardus  rose.  "  You  don't  remember 
162 


A   BRIDEGROOM   OF  SNOW 

your  own  mother,  my  dear.  You  have  an  exag 
gerated  idea  of  the  —  the  importance  of  mothers. 
They  are  only  a  temporary  arrangement."  She 
put  out  her  hands  and  the  girl's  cheek  touched  hers 
for  an  instant ;  then  she  straightened  herself  and 
walked  calmly  out  of  the  room.  Moya  remained  a 
little  longer,  afraid  to  follow  her.  "  If  she  would 
not  smile !  If  she  would  do  anything  but  smile  !  " 

Paul  was  walking  about  his  room,  half  an 
hour  later,  when  Moya  stopped  outside  his  door. 
She  placed  the  tray  on  a  table  in  the  hall.  The 
door  was  opened  from  within.  Paul  had  heard  his 
mother  go  up  before,  heard  her  pause  at  the  stairs, 
and,  after  a  silence,  enter  her  own  room. 

"  She  knows  that  I  know,"  he  said  to  himself. 
"  That  knowledge  will  be  always  between  us  ;  we 
can  never  look  each  other  in  the  face  again."  To 
Moya  he  endeavored  to  speak  lightly. 

"  It  sounded  very  gay  downstairs  to-night.  You 
must  have  had  a  houseful." 

"  I  have  been  with  your  mother  the  last  hour," 
answered  Moya,  vaguely  on  the  defensive.  Since 
Paul's  return  there  had  been  little  of  the  old  free 
intercourse  in  words  between  them,  and  without 
this  outlet  their  mutual  consciousness  became  acute. 
Often  as  they  saw  each  other  during  the  day,  the 
163 


THE  DESERT  AND   THE   SOWN 

keenest  emotion  attached  to  the  first  meeting  of 
their  eyes. 

Paul  was  unnerved  by  his  sudden  recall  from 
death  to  life.  Its  contrasts  were  overwhelming  to 
his  starved  senses  :  from  the  dirt  and  dearth  and 
grimy  despair  of  his  burial  hutch  in  the  snow  to  this 
softly  lighted,  close-curtained  room,  warm  and  sweet 
with  flowers  ;  from  the  gaunt,  unshaven  spectre  of 
the  packer  and  his  ghostly  revelations,  to  Moya, 
meekly  beautiful,  her  bright  eyes  lowered  as  she 
trailed  her  soft  skirts  across  the  carpet ;  Moya 
seated  opposite,  silent,  conscious  of  him  in  every 
look  and  movement.  Her  lovely  hands  lay  in  her 
lap,  and  the  thought  of  holding  them  in  his  made 
him  tremble  ;  and  when  he  recalled  the  last  time  he 
had  kissed  her  he  grew  faint.  He  longed  to  throw 
off  this  exhausting  self-restraint,  but  feared  to  be 
tray  his  helpless  passion  which  he  deemed  an  insult 
to  his  soul's  worship  of  her. 

And  she  was  thinking  :  "  Is  this  all  it  is  going 
to  mean  —  his  coming  home  —  our  being  together  ? 
And  I  was  almost  his  wife  !  " 

"So  it  was  my  mother  you  were  talking  to  in 
the  study  ?  I  thought  I  heard  a  man's  voice." 

"  It  was  the  doctor.  Your  mother  was  not 
quite  herself  this  evening.  He  came  in  to  see 
164 


A   BRIDEGROOM   OF  SNOW 

her,  but  he  does  not  think  she  is  ill.     '  Rest  and 
change,'  he  says  she  needs." 

Paul  gave  the  words  a  certain  depth  of  consid 
eration.  "  Are  you  as  well  as  usual,  Moya  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  am  always  well,"  she  answered  cheer 
lessly.  "  I  seem  to  thrive  on  anything  —  every 
thing,"  she  corrected  herself,  and  blushed. 

The  blush  made  him  gasp.  "  You  are  more 
beautiful  than  ever.  I  had  forgotten  that  beauty  is 
a  physical  fact.  The  sight  of  you  confuses  me." 

"  I  always  told  you  you  were  morbid."  Moya's 
happy  audacity  returned.  "  Now,  how  long  are  you 
going  to  sit  and  think  about  that  ?  " 

"  Do  I  sit  and  think  about  things  ? "  His 
reluctant,  boyish  smile,  which  all  women  loved,  cap 
tured  his  features  for  a  moment.  "  It  is  very  rude 
of  me." 

"  Suppose  I  should  ask  you  what  you  are  think 
ing  about  ?  " 

"Ah!  I  am  afraid  you  would  say  'morbid' 
again." 

"  Try  me  !  You  ought  to  let  me  know  at  once 
if  you  are  going  to  break  out  in  any  new  form  of 
morbidness." 

"  I  wish  it  might  amuse  you,  but  it  would  n't. 
Let  me  put  you  a  case  —  seriously." 
165 


THE   DESERT  AND  THE   SOWN 

Moya  smiled.  "  Once  we  were  serious  —  ages 
ago.  Do  you  remember  ?  " 

"  Do  I  remember !  " 

"  Well?     You  are  you,  and  I  am  I,  still." 

"  Yes  ;  and  as  full  of  fateful  surprises  for  each 
other." 

"  I  bar  '  fateful ' !  That  word  has  the  true  taint 
of  morbidness." 

"But  you  can't  'bar'  fate.  Listen:  this  is  a 
supposing,  you  know.  Suppose  that  an  accident 
had  happened  to  our  leader  on  the  way  home  —  to 
your  Lieutenant  Winslow,  we  '11  say  "  — 

"  My  lieutenant !  " 

"  Your  father's  —  the  regiment's  —  Lieutenant 
Winslow  '  of  ours.'  Suppose  we  had  brought  him 
back  in  a  state  to  need  a  surgeon's  help  ;  and  with 
out  a  word  to  any  one  he  should  get  up  and  walk 
out  of  the  hospital  with  his  hurts  not  healed,  and 
no  one  knew  why,  or  where  he  had  gone  ?  There 
would  be  a  stir  about  it,  would  there  not  ?  And  if 
such  a  poor  spectre  of  a  bridegroom  as  I  were  allowed 
to  join  the  search,  no  one  would  think  it  strange,  or 
call  it  a  slight  to  his  bride  if  the  fellow  went  ?  " 

"  I  take  your  case,"  said  Moya  with  a  beaming 
look.  "  You  want  to  go  after  that  poor  man  who 
suffered  with  you." 

166 


A  BRIDEGROOM   OF  SNOW 

"  Who  went  with  us  to  save  us  from  our  own 
headstrong  folly,  and  would  have  died  there 
alone  " — 

"  Yes ;  oh,  yes  !  —  before  you  begin  to  think 
about  yourself,  or  me.  Because  he  is  nobody  '  of 
ours,'  and  no  one  seems  to  feel  responsible,  and  we 
go  on  talking  and  laughing  just  the  same ! " 

"  Do  they  talk  of  this  downstairs?  " 

"  To-night  they  were  talking  —  oh,  with  such 
philosophy  !  But  how  came  you  to  know  it  ?  " 

Paul  did  not  answer  this  question.  "  Then  "  — 
he  drew  a  long  breath,  —  "  then  you  could  bear  it, 
dear  ?  —  the  comment,  even  if  they  called  it  a  slight 
to  you  and  a  piece  of  quixotic  lunacy?  Others 
will  not  take  my  case,  remember." 

"What  others?" 

"  They  will  say :  '  Why  does  n't  he  send  a  bet 
ter  man?  He  is  no  trailer.'  It  is  true.  Money 
might  find  him  and  bring  him  back,  but  all  the 
money  in  the  world  could  not  teach  him  to  trust 
his  friends.  There  is  a  misunderstanding  here 
which  is  too  bitter  to  be  borne.  It  is  hard  to  ex 
plain,  —  the  intimacy  that  grows  up  between  men 
placed  as  we  were.  But  as  soon  as  help  reached 
us,  the  old  lines  were  drawn.  I  belonged  with  the 
officers,  he  with  the  men.  We  could  starve  to- 
167 


THE   DESERT  AND  THE   SOWN 

gether,  but  we  could  not  eat  together.  He  accepted 
it  —  put  himself  on  that  basis  at  once.  He  would 
not  come  up  here  as  the  guest  of  the  Post.  He  is 
done  with  us  because  he  thinks  we  are  done  with 
him.  And  he  knows  that  I  must  know  his  occu 
pation  is  gone.  He  will  never  guide  nor  pack  a 
mule  again." 

"  Your  mother  and  my  father,  they  will  under 
stand.  What  do  the  others  matter  ?  " 

"  I  must  tell  you,  dear,  that  I  do  not  propose 
to  tell  them  —  especially  them  —  why  I  go.  For 
I  am  going.  I  must  go!  There  are  reasons  I 
cannot  explain."  He  sighed,  and  looked  wildly  at 
Moya,  whose  smile  was  becoming  mechanical.  "  I 
hate  the  excuse,  but  it  will  have  to  be  said  that 
I  go  for  a  change  —  for  my  health.  My  health ! 
Great  God !  But  it 's  '  orders,'  dear." 

"Your  orders  are  my  orders.  You  are  never 
going  anywhere  again  without  me,"  said  Moya 
slowly.  Her  smile  was  gone.  She  stood  up  and 
faced  him,  pale  and  beautiful.  He  rose,  too,  and 
stooped  above  her,  taking  her  hands  and  gazing 
into  her  full  blue  eyes  arched  like  the  eyes  of  angels. 

"  I  thought  she  was  a  girl !    But  she  is  a  wo 
man,"    he  said  in  a   voice   of  caressing  wonder. 
*'  A  woman,  and  not  afraid !  " 
168 


A  BRIDEGROOM   OF  SNOW 

"  I  am  afraid.  I  will  not  be  left  —  I  will  not 
be  left  again  !  Oh,  you  won't  take  me,  even  when 
I  offer  myself  to  you !  " 

"  Don't  —  don't  tempt  me  !  "  Paul  caught  her 
to  him  with  a  groan.  "  You  don't  know  me  well 
enough  to  be  afraid  of  me  !  " 

"  You !     You  will  not  let  me  know  you." 

"  Oh,  hush,  dear  —  hush,  my  darling !  This  is  n't 
thinking.  We  must  think  for  our  lives.  I  must 
take  care  of  you,  precious.  We  don't  know  where 
this  search  may  take  us,  or  where  it  will  end,  or 
what  the  end  will  be."  He  kissed  the  sleeve  of 
her  dress,  and  put  her  gently  from  him,  so  that  he 
could  look  her  in  the  eyes.  She  gave  him  her  fidl 
pure  gaze. 

"  It  is  the  poor  man  again.  You  said  he  would 
spoil  our  lives." 

"  He  is  our  poor  man.  You  did  n't  go  out  of 
your  way  to  find  him.  And  your  way  is  mine." 

"  It  is  so  heavenly  to  be  convinced !  Who 
taught  you  to  see  things  at  a  glance,  —  things  I 
have  toiled  and  bungled  over  and  don't  know  now 
if  I  am  right !  WJio  taught  you  ?  " 

"  Do  you  think  I  stood  still  while  you  were 
away  I  Oh,  my  heart  was  sifted  out  by  little 
pieces." 

169 


THE  DESERT  AND  THE  SOWN 

"  You  shall  sift  mine.  You  shall  tell  me  what 
to  do.  For  I  know  nothing  !  Not  even  if  I  may 
dare  to  take  this  angel  at  her  word  !  " 

"  I  knew  you  would  not  take  me  !  "  the  girl 
whispered  wildly.  "  But  I  shall  go." 


170 


XVI 

THE  NATURE  OF  AN   OATH 

YOUR  tray  I  It  is  after  ten  o'clock.  Your 
'  angel '  is  a  bad  nurse."  Moya  brought  the 
tray  and  set  it  on  a  little  stand  beside  Paul's  chair. 
He  watched  her  shy,  excited  preparations  as  she 
moved  about,  conscious  of  his  eyes.  The  saucepan 
staggered  upon  the  coals  and  they  both  sprang  to 
save  the  broth,  and  pouring  it  she  burnt  her  thumb 
a  little,  and  he  behaved  quite  like  any  ordinary 
young  man.  They  were  ecstatic  to  find  themselves 
at  ease  with  each  other  once  more.  Moya  became 
disrespectful  to  her  charge  ;  such  sweet  daring 
looked  from  her  eyes  into  his  as  made  him  riotous 
with  joy. 

"  Won't  you  take  some  with  me  ?  "  He  turned 
the  cup  towards  her  and  watched  her  as  she 
sipped. 

"  '  It  was  roast  with  fire,'  "  he  pronounced  softly 
and  dreamily,  *  because  of  the  dreadful  pains.     It 
was  to  be  eaten  with  bitter  herbs '  "  — 
171 


THE   DESERT  AND  THE   SOWN 

"  What  are  you  saying?  "  — 

"  '  To  remind  them  of  their  bondage.' ' 

"  I  object  to  your  talking  about  bondage  and 
bitter  herbs  when  you  are  eating  aunt  Annie's 
delicious  consomme." 

He  gravely  sipped  in  turn,  still  with  his  eyes  in 
hers.  "  Can  you  remember  what  you  were  doing 
on  the  second  of  November  ?  " 

"  Can  I  remember  !  " 

"  Yes ;  tell  me.     I  have  a  reason  for  asking." 

"  Tell  me  the  reason  first." 

"  May  we  have  a  little  more  fire,  darling  ?  It 
gives  me  chills  to  think  of  that  day.  It  was  the 
last  of  my  wretched  pot-hunting.  There  was  no 
thing  to  hunt  for  —  the  game  had  all  gone  down, 
but  I  did  not  know  that.  Somewhere  in  the  woods, 
a  long  way  from  the  cabin,  it  began  to  occur  to  me 
that  I  should  not  make  shelter  that  night.  A  fool 
and  his  strength  are  soon  parted.  It  was  a  little 
hollow  with  trees  all  around  so  deep  that  in  the 
distance  their  trunks  closed  in  like  a  wall.  Snow 
can  make  a  wonderful  silence  in  the  woods.  I 
seemed  to  hear  the  thoughts  of  everybody  I  loved 
in  the  world  outside.  There  had  been  a  dullness 
over  me  for  weeks.  I  could  not  make  it  true  that 
I  had  ever  been  happy  —  that  you  really  loved  me. 
172 


THE   NATURE   OF  AN   OATH 

All  that  part  of  my  life  was  a  dream.  Now,  in  that 
silence  suddenly  I  felt  you !  I  knew  that  you  cared. 
It  was  cruel  to  die  so  if  you  did  love  me !  It 
brought  the  '  pang  and  spur ' !  I  fought  the  drow 
siness  that  was  taking  away  my  pain.  I  had  be 
gun  to  lean  on  it  as  a  comfortable  breast.  I  woke 
up  and  tore  myself  away  from  that  siren  sleep. 
It  was  my  darling,  —  her  love  that  saved  me. 
Without  that  thought  of  you,  I  never  would  have 
stirred  again.  Where  were  you,  what  were  you 
thinking  that  brought  you  so  close  to  me  ?  " 

"  Ah,"  said  Moya  in  a  whisper.  "  I  was  in  that 
room  across  the  hall,  alone.  They  were  good  to  me 
that  day  ;  they  made  excuses  and  left  me  to  myself. 
In  the  afternoon  a  box  came,  —  from  poor  father, 
—  white  roses,  oh,  sweet  and  cold  as  snow !  I  took 
them  up  to  that  room  and  forced  myself  to  go  in. 
It  was  where  my  things  were  kept,  the  trunks  half 
packed,  all  the  drawers  and  closets  full.  And  my 
wedding  dress  laid  out  on  the  bed.  We  girls  used 
to  go  up  there  at  first  and  look  at  the  things,  and 
there  was  laughing  and  joking.  Sometimes  I  went 
up  alone  and  tried  on  my  hats  before  the  glass, 
and  thought  where  I  should  be  when  I  wore  them, 
and  —  Well !  all  that  stopped.  I  dreaded  to  pass 
the  door.  Everything  was  left  just  as  it  was ;  the 
173 


THE  DESERT  AND  THE   SOWN 

shutters  open,  the  poor  dress  covered  with  a  sheet 
on  the  bed.  The  room  was  a  death-chamber.  I 
went  in.  I  carried  the  roses  to  my  dead.  I  drew 
down  the  sheet  and  put  my  face  in  that  empty 
dress.  It  was  my  selfish  self  laid  out  there  —  the 
girl  who  knew  just  what  she  wanted  and  was  going 
to  get  it  if  she  could.  Happiness  I  dared  not 
even  pray  for  —  only  remembrance  —  everlasting 
remembrance.  That  we  might  know  each  other 
again  when  no  more  life  was  left  to  part  us  —  my 
life.  It  seemed  long  to  wait,  but  that  was  my  — 
marriage  vow.  I  gave  you  all  I  could,  remem 
brance,  faith  till  death." 

"  Then  you  are  my  own  !  "  said  Paul,  his  face 
transformed.  "  God  was  our  witness.  Life  of  my 
life  —  for  life  and  death !  "  Solemnly  he  took  a 
bridegroom's  kiss  from  her  lips. 

"  How  do  you  know  that  it  is  life  that  parts  ?  " 

"  Speak  so  I  can  understand  you !  "  Moya  cried. 
"  Ah,  if  I  might !  A  man  must  not  have  secrets 
from  his  wife.  Secrets  are  destruction,  don't  you 
think?" 

Moya  waited  in  silence. 

"  Now  we  come  to  this  bondage  I  "  He  let  the 
words  fall  like  a  load  from  his  breast.  "  This  is  a 
hideous  thing  to  tell  you,  but  it  will  cut  us  apart 
174 


THE  NATURE   OF  AN  OATH 

unless  you  know  it.  It  compels  me  to  do  things." 
He  paused,  and  they  heard  a  door  down  the  pas 
sage  open,  —  the  door  of  his  mother's  room.  A 
step  came  forward  a  few  paces.  Silence;  it  re 
treated,  and  the  door  closed  again  stealthily. 

"  She  has  not  slept,"  Paul  murmured.  "  Poor 
soul,  poor  soul !  Now,  in  what  I  am  going  to 
say,  please  listen  to  the  facts,  Moya  dear.  Try 
not  to  infer  anything  from  my  way  of  putting 
things.  I  shall  contradict  myself,  but  the  facts 
do  that. 

"  The  —  the  guide  —  John,  we  will  call  him, 
had  a  long  fever  in  the  woods.  It  would  come  on 
worse  at  night,  and  then  —  he  talked  —  words,  of 
a  shocking  intimacy.  They  say  that  nothing  the 
mind  has  come  in  contact  with  under  strong  emo 
tion  is  ever  lost,  no  matter  how  long  in  the  past. 
It  will  return  under  similar  excitement.  This  man 
had  kept  stored  away  in  his  mind,  under  some 
such  pressure,  the  words  of  a  woman's  message,  a 
woman  in  great  distress.  Over  and  over,  as  his 
pulse  rose,  countless  times  he  would  repeat  that 
message.  I  went  out  of  the  hut  at  night  and 
stood  outside  in  the  snow  not  to  hear  it,  but  I 
knew  it  as  well  as  he  did  before  we  got  through. 
Now,  this  was  what  he  said,  word  for  word. 
175 


THE   DESERT  AND  THE   SOWN 

"  '  Do  not  blame  me,  my  dear  husband.  I  have 
held  out  in  this  place  as  long  as  I  can.  Don't 
wait  for  anything.  Don't  worry  about  anything. 
Come  back  to  me  with  your  bare  hands.  Come  ! 
—  to  your  loving  Emmy  !  ' 

"  '  Come,  come  !  '  he  would  shout  out  loud.  Then 
in  another  voice  he  would  whisper,  '  Come  back  to 
me  with  your  bare  hands  !  '  And  he  would  stare 
at  his  hands  and  his  face  would  grow  awful." 

Moya  drew  a  long  sigh  of  scared  attention. 

"  Those  words  were  all  over  the  cabin  walls.  I 
heard  them  and  saw  them  everywhere.  There  was 
no  rest  from  them.  I  could  have  torn  the  roof 
down  to  stop  his  talking,  but  the  words  it  was  not 
possible  to  forget.  And  where  was  the  horror  of 
it?  Was  not  this  what  we  had  asked,  for  years, 
to  know  ?  " 

"  You  need  not  explain  to  me,"  said  Moya, 
shuddering. 

"  Yes ;  but  all  one's  meanest  motives  were  un 
earthed  in  a  place  like  that.  Would  I  have  felt 
so  with  a  different  man  ?  Some  one  less  uncouth  ? 
Was  it  the  man  himself,  or  his  "  — 

"  Paul,  if  anything  could  make  you  a  snob,  it 
would  be  your  deadly  fear  of  being  one !  " 

"  Well,  if  they  had  found  us  then,  God  knows 
176 


THE   NATURE   OF  AN   OATH 

how  that  fight  would  have  ended.  But  I  won  it 
—  when  there  was  nothing  left  to  fight  for.  I 
owned  him  — in  the  grave.  We  owned  each  other 
and  took  a  bashful  sort  of  comfort  in  it,  after  we 
had  shuffled  off  the  '  Mister  '  and  '  John.'  I  grew 
quite  fond  of  him,  when  we  were  so  near  death  that 
his  English  did  n't  matter,  or  his  way  of  eating.  I 
thought  him  a  very  remarkable  man,  you  remember, 
when  he  was  just  material  for  description.  He 
was,  he  is  remarkable.  Most  remarkable  in  this, 
he  was  not  ashamed  of  his  son." 

"  Do  please  let  that  part  alone.  I  want  to  know 
what  he  was  doing,  hiding  away  by  himself  all 
these  years  ?  I  believe  he  is  an  impostor !  " 

"  We  came  to  that,  of  course ;  though  some 
how  I  forgave  him  before  he  could  answer  the 
question.  In  the  long  watch  beside  him  I  got 
very  close  to  him.  It  was  not  possible  to  believe 
him  a  deserter,  a  sneak.  Can  you  take  my  word 
for  his  answer  ?  It  was  given  as  a  death-bed  con 
fession  and  he  is  living." 

"  I  would  take  your  word  for  anything  except 
yourself !  "  Moya  did  not  smile,  or  think  what 
she  was  saying. 

"  That  answer  cleared  him,  in  my  mind,  with 
something  over  to  the  credit  of  blind,  stupid  hero- 
177 


THE   DESERT  AND  THE   SOWN 

ism.  He  is  not  a  clever  man.  But,  speaking  as 
one  who  has  been  face  to  face  with  the  end  of 
things,  I  can  say  that  I  know  of  no  act  of  his 
that  should  prevent  his  returning  to  his  family  — 
if  he  had  a  family  —  not  even  his  deserting  them 
for  twenty  years.  If,  I  say  ! 

"  When  the  soldiers  found  us  we  were  too  far 
gone  to  realize  the  issue  that  was  upon  us.  He 
was  the  first  to  take  it  in.  It  was  on  the  march 
home,  at  night,  he  touched  me  and  began  speaking 
low  in  our  corner  of  the  tent.  '  As  we  came  in 
here,  so  we  go  out  again,  and  so  we  stay,'  he  said. 
I  told  him  it  could  not  be.  To  suppress  what  I 
had  learned  would  make  the  whole  of  life  a  lie, 
a  coward's  lie.  That  knowledge  belonged  to  my 
mother.  I  must  render  it  up  to  her.  To  do  other 
wise  would  be  to  treat  her  like  a  child  and  to 
meddle  with  the  purposes  of  God.  '  No  honest 
man  robs  another  of  his  secrets,'  he  said.  He  was 
very  much  excited.  She  was  the  only  one  now  to 
be  considered  —  and  what  did  I  know  about  God's 
purposes?  He  refused  to  take  my  scruples  into 
consideration,  except  such  as  concerned  her.  But, 
after  a  long  argument,  very  painful,  weak  as  we 
were  and  whispering  in  the  dark,  he  yielded  this 
much.  If  I  were  bent  on  digging  up  the  dead,  as 
178 


THE  NATURE   OF  AN   OATH 

he  called  it,  it  must  be  done  in  such  a  way  as  to  leave 
her  free.  Free  she  was  in  law,  and  she  must  be 
given  a  chance  to  claim  her  freedom  without  talk 
or  publicity.  Absolute  secrecy  he  demanded  of  me 
in  the  mean  time.  I  begged  him  to  see  how  unfair 
it  was  to  her  to  bring  her  face  to  face  with  such 
a  discovery  without  one  word  of  preparation,  of 
excuse  for  him.  She  would  condemn  him  on  the 
very  fact  of  his  being  alive.  So  she  would,  he  said, 
if  she  were  going  to  judge  him  ;  not  if  she  felt  to 
wards  him  as  —  as  a  wife  feels  to  her  husband.  It 
was  that  he  wanted  to  know.  It  was  that  or  no 
thing  he  would  have  from  her.  '  Bring  me  face  to 
face  with  her  alone,  and  as  sudden  as  you  like.  If 
she  knows  me,  I  am  the  man.  And  if  she  wants 
me  back,  she  will  know  me  —  and  that  way  I  '11 
come  and  no  other  way.'  Was  not  that  wonderful  ? 
A  gentleman  could  hardly  have  improved  on  that. 
Whatever  feeling  he  might  be  supposed  to  have 
towards  her  in  the  matter  we  could  never  touch 
upon.  But  I  think  he  had  his  hopes.  That  deci 
sion  was  hanging  over  us  —  and  I  trembled  for  her. 
Day  before  yesterday,  was  it,  I  persuaded  her  to 
see  the  sick  guide.  She  wondered  why  I  was  faint 
as  she  kissed  me  good-by.  I  ought  to  have  pre 
pared  her.  It  was  a  horrible  snare.  And  yet  he 
179 


THE   DESERT  AND  THE   SOWN 

meant  it  all  in  delicacy,  a  passionate  consideration 
for  her.  Poor  fool.  How  could  I  prepare  him ! 
How  could  he  keep  pace  with  the  changes  in  her  ! 
After  all,  it  is  externals  that  make  us,  —  habits, 
clothes.  Great  God  !  Things  you  could  not  speak 
of  to  a  naked  soul  like  him.  But  he  would  have 
it  '  straight,'  he  said  —  and  straight  he  got  it. 
And  he  is  gone  ;  broke  away  like  an  animal  out  of 
a  trap.  And  I  am  going  to  find  him,  to  see  at 
least  that  he  has  a  roof  over  his  head.  God  knows, 
he  may  not  die  for  years !  " 

"  She  has  got  years  before  her  too." 
"  She  !  —  What  am  I  saying !  We  have  plunged 
into  those  damnable  inferences  and  I  have  n't  given 
you  the  facts.  Wait.  I  shall  contradict  all  this 
in  a  moment.  I  thought,  she  must  have  done  this 
for  her  children.  She  must  be  given  another 
chance.  And  I  approached  the  thing  on  my  very 
knees  —  not  to  let  her  know  that  I  knew,  only  to 
hint  that  I  was  not  unprepared,  had  guessed  — 
could  meet  it,  and  help  her  to  meet  the  problems 
it  would  bring  into  our  lives.  Help  her  !  She 
stood  and  faced  me  as  if  I  had  insulted  her.  '  I 
have  been  your  father's  widow  for  twenty-two 
years.  If  that  fact  is  not  sacred  to  you,  it  is  to 
me.  Never  dare  to  speak  of  this  to  me  again  ! ' ' 
180 


THE   NATURE   OF   AN   OATH 

"  Ah,"  said  Moya  in  a  long-drawii  sigh,  "  then 
she  did  not  "  — 

"  Oh,  she  did,  explicitly !  For  I  went  on  to 
speak  of  it.  It  was  my  last  chance.  I  asked  her 
how  she  —  we  —  could  possibly  go  through  with 
it ;  how  with  this  knowledge  between  us  we  could 
look  each  other  in  the  face  —  and  go  on  living. 

" '  Put  this  hallucination  out  of  your  mind,' 
she  said.  '  That  man  and  I  are  strangers.'  " 

"  Was  that  —  would  you  call  that  a  lie  ?  "  asked 
Moya  fearfully. 

"  You  can  see  your  answer  in  her  face.  I  do 
not  say  that  hers  was  the  first  lie.  It  must  always 
be  foolish,  I  think,  to  evade  the  facts  of  life  as  we 
make  them  for  ourselves.  He  refused  to  meet  his 
facts,  from  the  noblest  motives ;  —  but  now  I  'm 
tangling  you  all  up  again  !  Rest  your  head  here, 
darling.  This  is  such  a  business !  It  is  a  pity  I 
cannot  tell  you  his  whole  story.  Half  the  mean 
ing  of  all  this  is  lost.  But  —  here  is  a  solemn 
declaration  in  writing,  signed  John  Hagar,  in 
which  this  man  we  are  speaking  of  says  that 
Adam  Bogardus  was  his  partner,  who  died  in  the 
woods  and  was  buried  by  his  hand  ;  that  he  knew 
his  story,  all  the  scenes  and  circumstances  of  his 
life  in  many  a  long  talk  they  had  together,  as  well 
181 


THE   DESERT  AND  THE   SOWN 

as  lie  knew  his  own.  In  his  delirium  he  must  have 
confused  himself  with  his  old  partner,  and  half  in 
dreams,  he  said,  half  in  the  crazy  satisfaction  of 
pretending  to  himself  he  had  a  son,  he  allowed  the 
delusion  to  go  on  ;  saw  it  work  upon  me,  and  half 
feared  it,  half  encouraged  it.  Afterwards  he  was 
frightened  at  the  thought  of  meeting  my  mother, 
who  would  know  him  for  an  impostor.  His  seem 
ing  scruples  were  fear  of  exposure,  not  considera 
tion  for  her.  This  was  why  he  guarded  their 
interview  so  carefully.  '  No  harm 's  been  done,' 
he  says,  '  if  you  '11  act  now  like  a  sensible  man. 
I  '11  be  disappointed  in  you  if  you  make  your 
mother  any  trouble  about  this.  You  've  treated 
me  as  square  as  any  man  could  treat  another. 
Remember,  I  say  so,  and  think  as  kindly  as  you 
can  of  a  harmless,  loony  old  impostor  '  — and  he 
signs  himself  '  John  Hagar,'  —  which  shows  again 
how  one  lie  leads  to  another.  We  go  to  find 
'  John  Hagar.' " 

"  Have  you  shown  your  mother  this  letter  ? 
You  have  not?  Paul,  you  will  not  rob  her  of 
her  just  defense  !  " 

"  I  will  not  heap  coals  of  fire  on  her  head !  This 
letter  simply  completes  his  renunciation,  and  he 
meant  it  for  her  defense.  But  when  a  man  signs 
182 


THE  NATURE   OF  AN   OATH 

himself  '  John  Hagar '  in  the  handwriting  of  my 
father,  it  shows  that  somebody  is  not  telling  the 
truth.  I  used  to  pore  over  the  old  farm  records  in 
my  father's  hand  at  Stone  Ridge  in  the  old  account 
books  stowed  away  in  places  where  a  boy  loves  to 
poke  and  pry.  I  know  it  as  well  as  I  know  yours. 
Do  you  suppose  she  would  not  know  it?  When 
a  man  writes  as  few  letters  as  he  does,  the  hand 
writing  does  not  change."  Paul  laid  the  letter 
upon  the  coals.  "  It  is  the  only  witness  against 
her,  but  it  loses  the  case." 

"  She  never  could  have  loved  him.  I  never 
believed  she  did  !  "  said  Moya. 

"  She  thinks  she  can  live  out  this  deep-down, 
deliberate  —  But  it  will  kill  her,  Moya.  Her  life 
is  ended  from  this  on.  How  could  I  have  driven 
her  to  that  excruciating  choice  !  I  ought  to  have 
listened  to  him  altogether  or  not  at  all.  There 
is  a  hell  for  meddlers,  and  the  ones  who  meddle 
for  conscience'  sake  are  the  deepest  damned,  I 
think." 

Moya  came  and  wreathed  her  arm  in  his,  and 
they  paced  the  room  in  silence.  At  length  she  said, 
"  If  we  go  to  find  John  Hagar,  shall  we  not  be 
meddling  again  ?  A  man  who  respects  a  woman's 
freedom  must  love  his  own.  It  is  the  last  thing 
183 


THE   DESERT  AND  THE   SOWN 

left  him.  Don't  hunt  him  down.  I  believe  no 
thing  could  hurt  him  now  like  seeing  you 
again." 

"  He  shall  not  see  me  unless  he  wants  to,  but 
he  shall  know  where  I  stand  on  this  question  of 
the  Impostor.  It  shall  be  managed  so  that  even 
he  can  see  I  am  protecting  her.  No,  call  himself 
what  he  will,  the  tie  between  him  and  me  is  another 
of  those  facts." 

"  But  do  you  love  him,  Paul  ?  " 

"  Oh  —  I  cannot  forget  him  !  He  is  —  just  as 
he  used  to  be  — '  poor  father  out  there  in  the 
cold.'  We  must  find  him  and  comfort  Him  some 
how." 

"  For  our  own  peace  of  mind  ?  Forgive  me  for 
arguing  when  everything  is  so  difficult.  But  he 
is  a  man  —  a  brave  man  who  would  rather  be  for 
ever  out  in  the  cold  than  be  a  burden.  Do  not 
rob  him  of  his  right  to  be  John  Hagar  if  he  wants 
to,  for  the  sake  of  those  he  loves.  You  do  not  tell 
me  it  was  love,  but  I  am  sure  it  was,  in  some  mis 
taken  way,  that  drove  him  into  exile.  Only  love 
as  pure  as  his  can  be  our  excuse  for  dragging  him 
back.  He  did  not  want  shelter  and  comfort  from 
her.  Only  one  thing.  Have  we  got  that  to  give 
him  ?  " 

184 


THE   NATURE   OF  AN   OATH 

"  Well  then,  I  go  for  my  own  sake  —  it  is  a 
physical  necessity ;  and  I  go  for  hers.  She  has 
put  it  out  of  her  own  power  to  help  him.  It  will 
ease  her  a  little  to  know  I  am  trying  to  reach  him 
in  his  forlorn  disguise." 

"But  you  were  not  going  to  tell  her?" 

"  In  words,  no.  But  she  will  understand.  There 
is  a  strange  clairvoyance  between  us,  as  if  we  were 
accomplices  in  a  crime  !  " 

Moya  reflected  silently.  This  search  which  Paul 
had  set  his  heart  upon  would  equally  work  his  own 
cure,  she  saw.  Nor  could  she  now  imagine  for 
themselves  any  lover's  paradise  inseparable  from 
tliis  moral  tragedy,  which  she  saw  would  be  fibre 
of  their  fibre,  life  of  their  life.  A  family  is  an 
organism ;  one  part  may  think  to  deny  or  defy 
another,  but  with  strange  pains  the  subtle  union 
exerts  itself ;  distance  cannot  break  the  thread. 

They  kissed  each  other  solemnly  like  little  chil 
dren  on  the  eve  of  a  long  journey  full  of  awed 
expectancy. 

Mrs.  Bogardus  stood  holding  her  door  ajar  as 
Moya  passed  on  her  way  downstairs.  "  You  are 
very  late,"  she  uttered  hoarsely.  "  Is  nothing 
settled  yet?" 

"  Everything !  "  Moya  hesitated  and  forced  a 
185 


THE   DESERT  AND  THE   SOWN 

smile,    "  everything  but  where  we  shall  go.     We 
will  start  —  and  decide  afterwards." 

"  You  go  together  ?    That  is  right.    Moya,  you 
have  a  genius  for  happiness !  " 

"  I  wish  I  had  a  genius  for  making  people  sleep 
who  lie  awake  hours  in  the  night  thinking  about 
other  people !  " 

"  If  you  mean  me,  people  of  my  age  need  very 
little  sleep." 

"  May  I  kiss  you  good-night,  Paul's  mother  ?  " 

"  You  may  kiss  me  because  I  am  Paul's  mother, 
not  because  I  do  not  sleep." 

Moya's  lips  touched  a  cheek  as  white  and  almost 
as  cold  as  the  frosted  window-panes  through  which 
the  moon  was  glimmering.  She  thought  of  the 
icy  roses  on  her  wedding  dress. 

Downstairs  her  father  was  smoking  his  bed 
time  cigar.  Mrs.  Creve,  very  sleepy  and  cosy  and 
flushed,  leaned  over  the  smouldering  bed  of  coals. 
She  held  out  her  plump,  soft  hand  to  Moya. 

"  Come  here  and  be  scolded !  We  have  been 
scolding  you  steadily  for  the  last  hour." 

"  If  you  want  that  young  man  to  get  his  strength 
back,  you'd  better  not  keep  him  up  talking  half 
the  night,"  the  colonel  growled  softly.  "  Do  you 
see  what  time  it  is  ?  " 

186 


THE  NATURE   OF  AN   OATH 

Moya  knelt  and  leaned  her  head  against  her 
father.  She  reached  one  hand  to  Mrs.  Creve. 
They  did  not  speak  again  till  her  weak  moment 
had  passed.  "It  will  be  very  soon,"  she  said,  press 
ing  the  warm  hand  that  stroked  her  own.  "  You 
will  help  me  pack,  aunt  Annie  ;  and  then  you  '11 
stay  —  with  father  ?  I  know  you  are  glad  to  have 
me  out  of  the  way  at  last !  " 


187 


XVII 

THE  HIDDEN  TRAIL 

BECAUSE  they  had  set  forth  on  a  grim  and 
sorrowful  quest,  it  need  not  be  supposed  that 
Paul  and  Moya  were  a  pair  of  sorrowful  pilgrims. 
It  was  their  wedding  journey.  At  the  outset  Moya 
had  said :  "  We  are  doing  the  best  we  know. 
For  what  we  don't  know,  let  us  leave  it  and  not 
brood." 

They  did  not  enter  at  once  upon  the  more  ec 
centric  stages  of  the  search.  They  went  by  way 
of  the  Great  Northern  to  Portland,  descending 
from  snow  to  roses  and  drenching  rains.  At  Pen- 
dleton,  which  is  at  the  junction  of  three  great  roads, 
Paul  sent  tracers  out  through  express  agents  and 
train  officials  along  the  remotest  slender  feeders  of 
these  lines.  Through  the  same  agents  it  was  made 
known  that  for  any  service  rendered  or  expense 
incurred  on  behalf  of  the  person  described,  his 
friends  would  hold  themselves  gratefully  respon 
sible. 

188 


THE   HIDDEN   TRAIL 

At  Portland,  Paid  searched  the  steamer  lists  and 
left  confidential  orders  in  the  different  transporta 
tion  offices ;  and  Moya  wrote  to  his  mother  —  a 
woman's  letter,  every  page  shining  with  happiness 
and  as  free  from  apparent  forethought  as  a  running 
brook. 

They  returned  by  the  Great  Northern  and  Lake 
Coeur  d'Alene,  stopping  over  at  Fort  Sherman  to 
visit  Mrs.  Creve,  who  was  giddy  with  joy  over  the 
wholesome  change  in  Paul.  She,  too,  wrote  a 
woman's  letter  concerning  that  visit,  to  the  colo 
nel,  which  cleared  a  crowd  of  shadows  from  his 
lonely  hearth. 

Thence  again  to  Pendleton  came  the  seekers, 
and  Paul  gathered  in  his  lines,  but  found  no 
thing;  so  cast  them  forth  again.  But  through 
all  these  distant  elaborations  of  the  search,  in 
his  own  mind  he  saw  the  old  man  creeping  away 
by  some  near,  familiar  trail  and  lying  hid  in 
some  warm  valley  in  the  hills,  his  prison  and  his 
home. 

It  was  now  the  last  week  in  March.  The  trav 
elers'  bags  were  in  the  office,  the  carriage  at  the 
door,  when  a  letter  —  pigeon-holed  and  forgotten 
since  received  some  three  weeks  before  —  was  put 
into  Paul's  hand. 

189 


THE   DESERT  AND   THE   SOWN 

I  run  up  against  your  ad.  in  the  Silver  City 
Times  [the  communication  began] .  If  you  have  n't 
found  your  man  yet,  maybe  I  can  put  you  onto 
the  right  lead.  I  'm  driving  a  jerky  on  the  road 
from  Mountain  Home  to  Oriana,  but  me  and  the 
old  man  we  don't  jibe  any  too  well.  I  've  got  a 
sort  of  disgust  on  me.  Think  I  '11  quit  soon  and 
go  to  mining.  Jimmy  Breen  he  runs  the  Ferry, 
he  can  tell  you  all  I  know.  Fifty  miles  from 
Mountain  Home  good  road  can  make  it  in  one 
day.  Yours  Respecfully, 

J.  STRATTON. 

It  was  in  following  up  this  belated  clue  that  the 
pilgrims  had  come  to  the  Ferry  inn,  crossing  by 
team  from  valley  to  valley,  cutting  off  a  great  bend 
of  the  Oregon  Short  Line  as  it  traverses  the  Snake 
River  desert ;  those  bare  high  plains  escarped  with 
basalt  bluffs  that  open  every  fifty  miles  or  so  to 
let  a  road  crawl  down  to  some  little  rope-ferry  sup 
ported  by  sheep-herders,  ditch  contractors,  miners, 
emigrants,  ranchmen,  all  the  wild  industries  of  a 
country  in  the  dawn  of  enterprise. 

Business  at  the  Ferry  had  shrunk  since  the  rail 
road  went  through.  The  house-staff  consisted  of 
Jimmy  Breen,  a  Chinese  cook  of  the  bony,  tartar 
190 


THE   HIDDEN  TRAIL 

breed,  sundry  dogs,  and  a  large  bachelor  cat  that 
mooned  about  the  empty  piazzas.  In  a  young 
farming  country,  hungry  for  capital,  Jimmy  could 
not  do  a  cash  business,  but  everything  was  grist 
that  came  to  his  mill ;  and  he  was  quick  to  distin 
guish  the  perennial  dead  beat  from  a  genuine  case 
of  hard  luck. 

u  That 's  a  good  axe  ye  have  there,"  pointing 
suggestively  to  a  new  one  sticking  out  of  the  rear 
baggage  of  an  emigrant  outfit.  "  Ye  better  1'ave 
that  with  me  for  the  dollar  that 's  owing  me.  If 
ye  have  money  to  buy  new  axes  ye  can't  be  broke 
entirely."  Or :  "  Slip  the  halter  on  that  calf  be 
hind  there.  The  mother  has  n't  enough  to  keep  it 
alive.  There  's  har'ly  a  dollar's  wort'  of  hide  on 
its  bones,  but  I  '11  take  it  to  save  it  droppin'  on  the 
road."  Or,  he  would  try  sarcasm :  "  Well,  we  '11 
be  shuttin'  her  down  in  the  spring.  Then  ye  can 
go  round  be  Walter's  Ferry  and  see  if  they  '11 
trust  ye  there."  Or :  "  Why  was  n't  ye  workin'  on 
the  Ditch  last  winter  ?  Settin'  smokin'  your  poipe 
in  the  tules,  the  wife  and  young  ones  packin'  sage 
brush  to  kape  ye  warm  !  " 

On  the  morning  after  their  distinguished  arrival, 
Jimmy's  guests  came  down  late  to  a  devastated 
breakfast-table.  Little  heaps  of  crumbs  here  and 
191 


THE  DESERT  AND   THE   SOWN 

there  showed  where  earlier  appetites  had  had  their 
destined  hour  and  gone  their  way.  At  an  impar 
tial  distance  from  the  top  and  the  foot  of  the  table 
stood  the  familiar  group  of  sauce  and  pickle  bot 
tles,  every  brand  dear  to  the  cowboy,  including  the 
"  surrup-jug  "  adhering  to  its  saucer.  There  was  a 
fresh-gathered  bunch  of  wild  phlox  by  Moya's  plate 
in  a  tumbler  printed  round  the  edge  with  impres 
sions  of  a  large  moist  male  thumb. 

"  Catchee  plenty,"  the  Chinaman  grinned,  point 
ing  to  the  plain  outside  where  the  pale  sage-brush 
quivered  stiffly  in  the  wind.  "  Bymbye  plenty 
come.  Pretty  col'  now." 

"  You  '11  be  getting  a  large  hump  on  yourself, 
Han,  me  boy.  'T  is  a  cash  crowd  we  have  here  — 
and  a  lady,  by  me  sowl !  "  Thus  Jimmy  exhorted 
his  household.  Times  were  looking  up.  They 
would  be  a  summer  resort  before  the  Ditch  went 
through ;  it  should  be  mentioned  in  the  Ditch 
company's  prospectus.  Jimmy  had  put  his  savings 
into  land-office  fees  and  had  a  hopeful  interest  in 
the  Ditch. 

A  spur  in  the  head  is  worth  two  in  the  heel. 

Without  a  word  from  "  the  boss  "  Han  had  found 

time  to  shave  and  powder  and  polish  his  brown 

forehead  and  put  on  his  whitest  raiment  over  his 

192 


THE   HIDDEN   TRAIL 

baggiest  trousers.  There  was  loud  panic  among 
the  fowls  in  the  corral.  The  cat  had  disappeared ; 
the  jealous  dogs  hung  about  the  doors  and  were 
pushed  out  of  the  way  by  friends  of  other  days. 

Seated  by  the  office  fire,  Paul  was  conferring 
with  Jimmy,  who  was  happy  with  a  fresh  pipe 
and  a  long  story  to  tell  to  a  patient  and  paying 
listener.  He  rubbed  the  red  curls  back  from  his 
shining  forehead,  took  the  pipe  from  his  teeth,  and 
guided  a  puff  of  smoke  away  from  his  auditor. 

"  I  seen  him  settin'  over  there  on  his  blankets," 
—  he  pointed  with  his  pipe  to  the  opposite  shore 
plainly  visible  through  the  office  windows,  —  "  but 
he  niver  hailed  me,  so  I  knowed  he  was  broke. 
Some,  whin  they  're  broke,  they  holler  all  the 
louder.  Ye  would  think  they  had  an  appointment 
wit'  the  Governor  and  he  sint  his  car'iage  to  meet 
them.  But  he  was  as  humble,  he  was,  as  a  yaller 
dog.  —  Out !  Git  out  from  here  —  the  pack  of 
yez !  Han,  shut  the  dure  an'  drive  thim  bloody 
curs  off  the  piazzy.  They  're  trackin'  up  the  whole 
place.  —  As  I  was  sayin',  sor,  there  he  stayed 
hunched  up  in  the  wind,  waitin'  on  the  chanst  of 
a  team  comin',  and  I  seen  he  was  an  ould  daddy. 
I  stud  the  sight  of  him  as  long  as  I  cud,  me  comin' 
and  goin'.  He  fair  wore  me  out.  So  I  tuk  the 
193 


THE   DESERT  AND  THE   SOWN 

boat  over  for  'im.  One  of  his  arrums  he  could  n't 
lift  from  the  shoulder,  and  I  give  him  a  h'ist  wit' 
his  bundle.  Faith,  it  was  light !  '  Twinty  years 
a-getherin','  he  cackles,  slappin'  it.  '  Ye  've  had 
harrud  luck,'  I  says.  '  'T  is  not  much  of  a  sheaf  ye 
are  packin'  home.'  *  That 's  as  ye  look  at  it,'  he  says. 

"  I  axed  him  what  way  was  he  goin'.  He  was 
thinking  to  get  a  lift  as  far  as  Oriana,  if  the  stages 
was  runnin'  on  that  road.  '  Then  ye  '11  have  to  bide 
here  till  morning,'  I  says,  '  for  ye  must  have  met 
the  stage  goin'  the  other  way.'  '  I  met  nothing/ 
says  he ;  '  I  come  be  way  of  the  bluffs,'  —  which  is 
a  strange  way  for  one  man  travelin'  afoot. 

"  The  grub  was  on  the  table,  and  I  says,  *  Sit 
by  and  fill  yourself  up.'  His  cheeks  was  fallin'  in 
wit'  the  hunger.  With  that  his  poor  ould  eye  be 
gun  to  water.  'T  was  one  weak  eye  he  had  that 
was  weepin'  all  the  time.  '  I  Ve  got  out  of  the 
habit  of  reg'lar  aitin','  he  says.  '  It  don't  take 
much  to  kape  me  goin'.'  '  Niver  desave  yourself, 
sor  !  'T  is  betther  feed  three  hungry  men  than 
wan  "  no  occasion."  '  His  appetite  it  grew  on  him 
wit'  every  mouthful.  There  was  a  boundless  empti 
ness  to  him.  He  lay  there  on  the  bench  and  slep' 
the  rest  of  the  evening,  and  I  left  him  there  wit' 
a  big  fire  at  night.  And  the  next  day  at  noon  we 
194 


THE  HIDDEN  TRAIL 

h'isted  him  up  beside  of  Joe  Stratton.  A  rip- 
snorter  of  a  wind  was  blowin'  off  the  Silver  City 
peaks.  His  face  was  drawed  like  a  winter  apple, 
but  he  wint  off  happy.  I  think  he  was  warm  in 
side  of  himself." 

"  Did  you  ask  him  his  name  ?  " 

"  Sure.  Why  not  ?  John  Treagar  he  called 
himself." 

"  Treagar  ?     Hagar,  you  mean  !  " 

"  It  was  Treagar  he  said." 

"  John  Hagar  is  the  man  I  am  looking  for." 

"  Treagar  —  Hagar  ?  'T  is  comin'  pretty  close 
to  it." 

"  About  what  height  and  build  was  he  ?  " 

"  He  was  not  to  say  a  tall  man  ;  and  he  was  n't 
so  turrible  short  neither.  His  back  was  as  round 
as  a  Bible.  A  kind  of  pepper  and  saltish  beard 
he  had,  and  his  hair  was  blacker  than  his  beard 
but  white  in  streaks." 

"  A  dark  man,  was  he  ?  " 

"  He  would  be  a  dark  man  if  he  was  younger." 

"  The  man  I  want  is  blue-eyed." 

"  His  eyes  was  blue  —  a  kind  of  washed-out 
gray  that  maybe  was  blue  wanst ;  and  one  of  them 
always  weepin'  wit'  the  cold." 

"  And  light  brown  hair  mixed  with  gray,  like 
195 


THE   DESERT  AND  THE   SOWN 

sand  and  ashes  —  mostly  ashes  ;  and  a  thin  strag 
gling  beard,  thinner  on  the  cheeks  ?  A  high  head 
and  a  tall  stooping  figure  —  six  feet  at  least ;  hands 
with  large  joints  and  a  habit  of  picking  at  them 
when  "  — 

"  Ye  are  goin'  too  fast  for  me  now,  sor.  He  was 
not  that  description  of  a  man,  nayther  the  height 
nor  the  hair  of  him.  Sure  't  is  a  pity  for  ye  comin' 
this  far,  and  him  not  the  man  at  all.  Faith,  I  wish 
I  was  the  man  meself !  I  wonder  at  Joe  Stratton 
anyhow !  He  's  a  very  hasty  man,  is  Joe.  He 
jumps  in  wit'  both  feet,  so  he  does*  I  could  have 
told  ye  that." 

Moya,  always  helplessly  natural,  and  now  very 
tired  as  well,  when  Paul  described  with  his  usual 
gravity  this  anti-climax,  fell  below  all  the  dignities 
at  once  in  a  burst  of  childish  giggling.  Paul 
looked  on  with  an  embarrassed  smile,  like  a  puz 
zled  affectionate  dog  at  the  incomprehensible  mirth 
of  humans.  Paul  was  certainly  deficient  in  humor 
and  therefore  in  breadth.  But  what  woman  ever 
loved  her  lover  the  less  for  having  discovered  his 
limitations  ?  Humor  runs  in  families  of  the  intenser 
cultivation.  The  son  of  the  soil  remains  serious 
in  the  face  of  life's  and  nature's  ironies. 
196 


XVIII 

THE  STAR  IN  THE  EAST 

SO  the  search  paused,  while  the  searchers  rested 
and  revised  their  plans.  Spring  opened  in 
the  valley  as  if  for  them  alone.  There  were  morn 
ings  "  proud  and  sweet,"  when  the  humblest  imag 
ination  could  have  pictured  Aurora  and  her  train 
in  the  jocund  clouds  that  trooped  along  the  sky,  — 
wind-built  processions  which  the  wind  dispersed. 
Wild  flowers  spread  so  fast  they  might  have  been 
spilled  from  the  rainbow  scarf  of  Iris  fleeting  over 
head.  The  river  was  in  flood,  digging  its  elbows 
into  its  muddy  banks.  The  willow  and  wild-rose 
thickets  stooped  and  washed  their  spring  garments 
in  its  tide. 

Primeval  life  and  love  were  all  around  them. 
Meadow  larks  flung  their  brief  jets  of  song  into 
the  sunlight ;  the  copses  rustled  with  wings  ;  wood- 
doves  cooed  from  the  warm  sunny  hollows,  and  the 
soft  booming  of  their  throaty  call  was  like  a  beating 
in  the  air,  —  the  pulse  of  spring.  They  had  found 
197 


THE   DESERT  AND   THE   SOWN 

their  Garden.  Humanity  in  the  valley  passed  be 
fore  them  in  forms  as  interesting  and  as  alien  as 
the  brother  beasts  to  Adam  :  the  handsome  driver 
of  the  jerky,  Joe  Stratton's  successor,  who  sat  at 
dinner  opposite  and  combed  his  flowing  mustache 
with  his  fork  in  a  lazy,  dandified  way ;  the  dark 
ened  faces  of  sheep-herders  enameled  by  sun  and 
wind,  their  hair  like  the  winter  coats  of  animals ; 
the  slow-eyed  farmers  with  the  appetites  of  horses ; 
the  spring  recruits  for  the  ranks  of  labor  footing 
it  to  distant  ranches,  each  with  his  back-load  of 
bedding,  and  the  dust  of  three  counties  on  his 
garments. 

The  sweet  forces  of  Nature  shut  out,  for  a  sea 
son,  Paul's  cri  du  cceur.  One  may  keep  a  chamber 
sacred  to  one's  sadder  obligations  and  yet  the  house 
be  filled  with  joy.  Further  ramifications  of  the 
search  were  mapped  out  with  Jimmy's  indifferent 
assistance.  For  good  reasons  of  his  own,  Jimmy 
did  little  to  encourage  an  early  start.  He  would 
explain  that  his  maps  were  of  ancient  date  and  full 
of  misinformation  as  to  stage  routes.  "  See  that 
now !  The  stages  was  pulled  off  that  line  five 
year  ago,  on  account  of  the  railroad  cuttin'  in  on 
them.  Ye  could  n't  make  it  wid'out  ye  took  a 
camp  outfit.  There  's  ne'er  a  station  left,  and  when 
198 


THE   STAR  IN  THE   EAST 

ye  come  to  it,  it 's  ruins  ye  '11  find.  A  chimbly 
and  a  few  rails,  if  the  mule-skinners  hasn't 
burned  them.  'T  is  a  country  very  devoid  of 
fuel;  sagebrush  and  grease- wood,  and  a  wind, 
bedad !  that  blows  the  grass-seeds  into  the  next 
county." 

When  these  camping-trips  were  proposed  to 
Moya,  she  hesitated  and  responded  languidly  ;  but 
when  Paul  suggested  leaving  her  even  for  a  day, 
her  fears  fluttered  across  his  path  and  wiled  him 
another  way.  Vaguely  he  felt  that  she  was  unlike 
herself  —  less  buoyant,  though  often  restless  ;  and 
sometimes  he  fancied  she  was  pale  underneath  her 
sun-burned  color  like  that  of  rose-hips  in  October. 
Various  causes  kept  him  inert,  while  strength 
mounted  in  his  veins,  and  life  seemed  made  for  the 
pure  joy  of  living. 

The  moon  of  May  in  that  valley  is  the  moon  of 
roses,  for  the  heats  once  due  come  on  apace.  The 
young  people  gave  up  their  all-day  horseback  rides 
and  took  morning  walks  instead,  following  the 
shore-paths  lazily  to  shaded  coverts  dedicated  to 
those  happy  silences  which  it  takes  two  to  make. 
Or,  they  climbed  the  bluffs  and  gazed  at  the  im 
penetrable  vast  horizon,  and  thought  perhaps  of 
their  errand  with  that  pang  of  self-reproach  which, 
199 


THE   DESERT  AND  THE   SOWN 

when  shared,  becomes  a  subtler  form  of  self-indul 
gence. 

But  at  night,  all  the  teeming  life  of  the  plain 
rushed  up  into  the  sky  and  blazed  there  in  a  mil 
lion  friendly  stars.  After  the  languor  of  the  sleepy 
afternoons,  it  was  like  a  fresh  awakening  —  the 
dawn  of  those  white  May  nights.  The  wide  plain 
stirred  softly  through  all  its  miles  of  sage.  The 
river's  cadenced  roar  paused  beyond  the  bend  and 
outbroke  again.  All  that  was  eerie  and  furtive 
in  the  wild  dark  found  a  curdling  voice  hi  the 
coyote's  hunting-call. 

In  a  hollow  concealed  by  sage,  not  ten  minutes' 
walk  from  the  Ferry  inn,  unknown  to  the  map- 
maker  and  innocent  of  all  use,  lay  a  perfect  floor 
for  evening  pacing  with  one's  eyes  upon  the  stars. 
It  was  the  death  mask  of  an  ancient  lake,  done  in 
purest  alkali  silt,  and  needing  only  the  shadows 
cast  by  a  low  moon  to  make  the  illusion  almost  un 
believable.  Slow  precipitation,  season  after  season, 
as  the  water  dried,  had  left  the  lake  bed  smooth  as 
a  cast  in  plaster.  Subsequent  warpings  had  lifted 
the  alkali  crust  into  thin-lipped  wavelets.  But 
once  upon  the  floor  itself  the  resemblance  to  water 
vanished.  The  warpings  and  Grumblings  took  the 
shape  of  earth  as  made  by  water  and  baked  by  fire. 
200 


THE   STAR  IN  THE   EAST 

Moya  compared  it  to  a  bit  of  the  dead  moon  fallen 
to  show  us  what  we  are  coming  to.  They  paced  it 
soft-footed  in  tennis  shoes  lest  they  should  crum 
ble  its  talc-like  whiteness.  But  they  read  no  horo 
scopes,  for  they  were  shy  of  the  future  in  speak 
ing  to  each  other,  —  and  they  made  no  plans. 

One  evening  Moya  had  said  to  Paul :  "  I  can 
understand  your  mother  so  much  better  now  that  I 
am  a  wife.  I  think  most  women  have  a  tendency 
towards  the  state  of  being  wranarried.  And  if  one 
had  —  children,  it  would  increase  upon  one  very 
fast.  A  widow  and  a  mother  —  for  twenty  years. 
How  could  she  be  a  wife  again  ?  " 

Paul  made  no  reply  to  this  speech  which  long 
continued  to  haunt  him  ;  especially  as  Moya  wrote 
more  frequently  to  his  mother  and  did  not  offer  to 
show  him  her  letters.  In  their  evening  walks  she 
seemed  distrait,  and  during  the  day  more  restless. 

One  night  of  their  nightly  pacings  she  stopped 
and  stood  long,  her  head  thrown  back,  her  eyes 
fixed  upon  the  dizzy  star-deeps.  Paul  waited  a 
step  behind  her,  touching  her  shoulders  with  his 
hands.  Suddenly  she  reeled  and  sank  backwards 
into  his  arms.  He  held  her,  watching  her  lovely 
face  grow  whiter  ;  her  eyelids  closed.  She  breathed 
slowly,  leaning  her  whole  weight  upon  him. 
201 


THE   DESERT   AND   THE   SOWN 

Coining  to  herself,  she  smiled  and  said  it  was 
nothing.  She  had  been  that  way  before.  "  But 
—  we  must  go  home.  We  must  have  a  home  — 
somewhere.  I  want  to  see  your  mother.  Paul, 
be  good  to  her  —  forgive  her  —  for  my  sake  \  " 


202 


XIX 

PILGRIMS  AND  STRANGERS 

A  UNT  POLLY  LEWIS  was  disappointed  in 
JV  the  latest  of  her  beneficiaries.  It  was  nine 
years  since  her  husband  had  locked  up  his  sav 
ings  in  the  Mud  Springs  ranch,  a  neglected  little 
health-plant  at  the  mouth  of  the  Bruneau.  If 
you  were  troubled  with  rheumatism,  or  a  crick 
in  the  back,  or  your  "  pancrees  "  did  n't  act  or 
your  blood  was  "  out  o'  fix,  why,  you  'd  better  go 
up  to  Looanders'  for  a  spell  and  soak  yourself  in 
that  blue  mud  and  let  aunt  Polly  diet  ye  and  dost 
ye  with  yerb  tea." 

When  Leander  courted  aunt  Polly  in  the  inter 
ests  of  his  sanitarium,  she  was  reputed  the  best 
nurse  in  Ada  County.  The  widow  —  by  desertion 
—  of  a  notorious  quack  doctor  of  those  parts :  it 
was  an  open  question  whether  his  medicine  had 
killed  or  her  nursing  had  cured  the  greater  number 
of  confiding  sick  folk.  Leander  drove  fifty  miles 
to  catechise  this  notable  woman,  and  finding  her 
203 


THE   DESERT   AND   THE   SOWN 

sound  on  the  theory  of  packs  hot  and  cold,  and 
skilled  in  the  practice  of  rubbing,  —  and  having 
made  the  incidental  discovery  that  she  was  a  per 
son  not  without  magnetism,  —  he  decided  on  the 
spot  to  add  her  to  the  other  attractions  of  Mud 
Springs  ranch  ;  and  she  drove  home  with  him  next 
day,  her  trunk  in  the  back  of  his  wagon. 

The  place  was  no  sinecure.  Bricks  without 
straw  were  a  child's  pastime  to  the  cures  aunt 
Polly  and  the  Springs  effected  without  a  pretense 
to  the  comforts  of  life  in  health,  to  say  nothing  of 
sickness.  Modern  conveniences  are  costly,  and  how 
are  you  to  get  the  facilities  for  "  pay  patients " 
when  you  have  no  patients  that  pay !  Prosperity 
had  overlooked  the  Bruneau,  or  had  made  false 
starts  there,  through  detrimental  schemes  that 
gave  the  valley  a  bad  name  with  investors.  The 
railroad  was  still  fifty  miles  away,  and  the  invalid 
public  would  not  seek  life  itself,  in  these  days  of 
luxurious  travel,  at  the  cost  of  a  twelve  hours' 
stage-ride.  However,  as  long  as  the  couple  had  a 
roof  over  their  heads  and  the  Springs  continued 
to  plop  and  vomit  their  strange,  chameleon-colored 
slime,  Leander  would  continue  to  bring  home  the 
sick  and  the  suffering  for  Polly  and  the  Springs  to 
practice  on.  Health  became  his  hobby,  and  in  time, 
204 


PILGRIMS   AND   STRANGERS 

with  isolation  thrown  in,  it  began  to  invade  his 
common  sense.  He  tried  in  succession  all  the  diet 
fads  of  the  day  and  wound  up  a  convert  to  the 
"  Ralston  "  school  of  eating.  Aunt  Polly  had 
clung  a  little  longer  to  the  flesh-pots,  but  the 
charms  of  a  system  that  abolished  half  the  labor 
of  cooking  prevailed  with  her  at  last,  and  in  the 
end  she  kept  a  sharper  eye  upon  Leander  at  meal 
time  than  ever  he  had  upon  her. 

The  ignorant  gorgings  of  their  neighbors  were  a 
head-shaking  and  a  warning  to  them,  and  more  than 
once  Leander's  person  was  in  jeopardy  through  his 
zealous  but  unappreciated  concern  for  the  brother 
who  eats  in  darkness. 

He  had  started  out  one  winter  morning  from 
Bisuka,  a  virtuous  man.  His  team  had  breakfasted, 
but  not  he.  A  Ralstonite  does  not  load  up  his 
stomach  at  dawn  after  the  manner  of  cattle,  and 
such  pious  substitutes  for  a  cup  of  coffee  as  are 
permitted  the  faithful  cannot  always  be  had  for  a 
price.  At  Indian  Creek  he  hauled  up  to  water  his 
team,  and  to  make  for  himself  a  cinnamon-colored 
decoction  by  boiling  in  hot  water  a  preparation  of 
parched  grains  which  he  carried  with  him.  This 
he  accomplished  in  an  angle  of  the  old  corral  fence 
out  of  the  wind.  There  is  no  comfort  nor  even 
205 


THE   DESERT  AND   THE   SOWN 

virtue  in  eating  cold  dust  with  one's  sandwiches. 
Leander  sunk  his  great  white  tushes  through  the 
thick  slices  of  whole-wheat  bread  and  tasted  the 
paste  of  peanut  meal  with  which  they  were  spread. 
He  ate  standing  and  slapped  his  leg  to  warm  his 
driving  hand. 

A  flutter  of  something  colored,  as  a  garment, 
caught  his  eye,  directing  it  to  the  shape  of  a  man, 
rolled  in  an  old  blue  blanket,  lying  motionless  in  a 
corner  of  the  tumble-down  wall.  "  Drunk,  drunk 
as  a  hog  !  "  pronounced  Leander.  For  no  man  in 
command  of  himself  would  lie  down  to  sleep  in 
such  a  place.  As  if  to  refute  this  accusation,  the 
wind  turned  a  corner  of  the  blanket  quietly  off  a 
white  face  with  closed  eyelids,  —  an  old,  worn, 
gentle  face,  appealing  in  its  homeliness,  though 
stamped  now  with  the  dignity  of  death.  Leander 
knelt  and  handled  the  body  tenderly.  It  was  long 
before  he  satisfied  himself  that  life  was  still  there. 
Another  case  for  Polly  and  the  Springs.  A  man 
worth  saving,  if  Leander  knew  a  man  ;  one  of  the 
trustful,  trustworthy  sort.  His  heart  went  out  to 
him  on  the  instant  as  to  a  friend  from  home. 

It  was  closing  in  for  dusk  when  he  reached  the 
Ferry.  Jimmy  was  away,  and  Han,  in  high  dud 
geon,  brought  the  boat  over  in  answer  to  Leander's 
206 


PILGRIMS  AND   STRANGERS 

hail.  He  had  grouse  to  dress  for  supper,  inconsid 
erately  flung  in  upon  him  at  the  last  moment  by 
the  stage,  four  hours  late. 

"  Huh  !  Why  you  no  come  one  hour  ago  ? 
All  time  '  Hullo,  hullo '  !  Je'  Cli'  !  me  no  dam 
felly-man  —  me  dam  cook  !  Too  much  man  say 
'Hullo'!" 

The  prospect  was  not  good  for  help  at  the 
Ferry  inn,  so,  putting  his  trust  in  Polly  and  the 
Springs,  Leander  pushed  on  up  the  valley. 

When  Aunt  Polly's  patients  were  of  the  right 
sort,  they  stayed  on  after  their  recovery  and  helped 
Leander  with  the  ranch  work.  But  for  the  most 
part  they  "  hit  the  trail  "  again  as  soon  as  their 
ills  were  healed,  not  forgetting  to  advertise  the 
Springs  to  other  patients  of  their  own  class.  The 
only  limit  to  this  unenviable  popularity  was  the  size 
of  the  house.  Leander  saw  no  present  advantage 
in  building. 

But  in  case  they  ever  did  build  —  and  the  time 
was  surely  coming !  —  here  was  the  very  person 
they  had  been  looking  for.  Cast  your  bread  upon 
the  waters.  The  winter's  bread  and  care  and  shel 
ter  so  ungrudgingly  bestowed  had  returned  to  them 
many-fold  in  the  comfortable  sense  of  dependence 
and  unity  they  felt  in  this  last  beneficiary,  the  old 
207 


THE   DESERT   AND   THE   SOWN 

man  of  Indian  Creek  whom  they  called  "  Uncle 
John." 

"  The  kindest  old  creetur'  ever  lived  !  Some 
forgitful,  but  everybody  's  liable  to  forgit.  Only 
tell  him  one  thing  at  once,  and  don't  confuse  him, 
and  he  '11  git  through  an  amazin'  sight  of  chores  in 
a  day." 

"  Just  the  very  one  we  '11  want  to  wait  on  the 
men  patients,"  Aunt  Polly  chimed  in.  "  He  can 
carry  up  meals  and  keep  the  bathrooms  clean,  and 
wash  out  the  towels,  and  he  's  the  best  hand  with 
poultry.  He  takes  such  good  care  of  the  old  hens 
they  're  re'lly  ashamed  not  to  lay  !  " 

It  was  spring  again  ;  old  hopes  were  putting 
forth  new  leaves.  Leander  had  heard  of  a  capi 
talist  in  the  valley ;  a  young  one,  too,  more  prone 
to  enthusiasm  if  shown  the  right  thing. 

"  I  'm  going  down  to  Jimmy's  to  fetch  them  up 
here  !  "  Leander  announced. 

"  Are  there  two  of  them  ?  " 

"  He  has  brought  his  wife  out  with  him.  They 
are  a  young  couple.  He  's  the  only  son  of  a  rich 
widow  in  New  York,  and  Jimmy  says  they  've  got 
money  to  burn.  Jimmy  don't  take  much  stock  in 
this  'ere  '  wounded  guide '  story  —  thinks  it 's  more 
or  less  of  a  blind.  He 's  feeling  around  for  a 
208 


PILGRIMS   AND   STRANGERS 

good  investment  —  desert  land  or  mining  claims. 
Jimmy  thinks  he  represents  big  interests  back 
East." 

Aunt  Polly  considered,  and  the  corners  of  her 
mouth  moistened  as  she  thought  of  the  dinner  she 
would  snatch  from  the  jaws  of  the  system  on  the 
day  these  young  strangers  should  visit  the  ranch. 

"  By  Gum  !  "  Leander  shouted.  "  I  wonder  if 
Uncle  John  would  n't  know  something  about  the 
party  they  're  advertising  for.  That  'd  be  the  way 
to  find  out  if  they  're  really  on  the  scent.  I  '11  take 
him  down  with  me  —  that 's  what  I  '11  do  —  and 
let  him  have  a  talk  with  the  young  man  himself. 
It  '11  make  a  good  opening.  Are  you  listening, 
Polly  ?  "  She  was  not.  "  I  wish  you  'd  git  him 
to  fix  himself  up  a  little.  Lay  out  one  o'  my  clean 
shirts  for  him,  and  I  '11  take  him  down  with  me 
day  after  to-morrow." 

"  I  '11  have  a  fresh  churning  to-morrow,"  Aunt 
Polly  mused.  "  You  can  take  a  little  pat  of  it  with 
you.  I  won't  put  no  salt  in  it,  and  I  '11  send 
along  a  glass  or  two  of  my  wild  strawberry  jam. 
It  takes  an  awful  time  to  pick  the  berries,  but  I 
guess  it  '11  be  appreciated  after  the  table  Jimmy 
sets.  I  don't  believe  Jimmy  '11  be  offended  ?  " 

"  Bogardus  is  their  name,"  continued  Leander. 
209 


THE  DESERT  AND  THE   SOWN 

"  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bogardus,  from  New  York.  Jim 
my  's  got  it  down  in  his  hotel  book  and  he  's  show 
ing  it  to  everybody.  Jimmy  's  reel  childish  about 
it.  I  tell  him  one  swallow  don't  make  a  summer." 

Uncle  John  had  come  into  the  room  and  sat 
listening,  while  a  yellow  pallor  crept  over  his  fore 
head  and  cheeks.  He  moved  to  get  up  once,  and 
then  sat  down  again  weakly. 

"What's  the  matter,  Uncle?"  Aunt  Polly 
eyed  him  sharply.  "You  been  out  there  chop 
ping  wood  too  long  in  this  hot  sun.  What  did  I 
tell  you  ?  " 

She  cleared  the  decks  for  action.  Paler  and 
paler  the  old  man  grew.  He  was  not  able  to 
withstand  her  vigorous  sympathies.  She  had  him 
tucked  up  on  the  calico  lounge  and  his  shoes  off 
and  a  hot  iron  at  his  feet ;  but  while  she  was  hur 
rying  up  the  kettle  to  make  him  a  drink  of  some 
thing  hot,  he  rose  and  slipped  up  the  outside  stairs 
to  his  bedroom  in  the  attic.  There  he  seated  him 
self  on  the  side  of  his  neat  bed  which  he  always 
made  himself  camp  fashion, — the  blankets  folded 
lengthwise  with  just  room  for  one  quiet  sleeper  to 
crawl  inside  ;  and  there  he  sat,  opening  and  clinch 
ing  his  hands,  a  deep  perplexity  upon  his  features. 

Aunt  Polly  called  to  him  and  began  to  read  the 
210 


PILGRIMS  AND   STRANGERS 

riot  act,  but  Leander  said  :  "  Let  him  be  !  He 
gits  tired  o'  being  fussed  over.  You  're  at  him 
about  something  or  other  the  whole  blessed  time." 

kt  Well,  I  have  to  !  My  gracious  !  He  'd  forgit 
to  come  in  to  his  meals  if  I  did  n't  keep  him  on 
my  mind." 

"  It  just  strikes  me  —  what  am  I  going  to  call 
him  when  I  introduce  him  to  those  folks  ?  Did  he 
ever  tell  you  what  his  last  name  is  ?  " 

"  I  would  n't  be  surprised,"  Aunt  Polly  lowered 
her  voice,  "  if  he  could  n't  remember  it  himself ! 
I  've  heard  of  such  cases.  Whenever  I  try  to  draw 
him  out  to  talk  about  himself  and  what  happened 
to  him  before  you  found  him,  it  breaks  him  all  up  ; 
seemingly  gives  him  a  back-set  every  time.  He 
sort  of  slinks  into  himself  in  that  queer,  lost  way 
—  just  like  he  was  when  he  first  come  to." 

"  He 's  had  a  powerful  jar  to  his  constitution, 
and  his  mind  is  taking  a  rest."  Leander  was  fond 
of  a  diagnosis.  "  There  was  n't  enough  life  left  in 
him  to  keep  his  faculties  and  his  bod'ly  organs  all 
a-going  at  once.  The  upper  story  's  to  let." 

"  I  wish  you  'd  go  upstairs,  and  see  what  he  is 
doing  up  there." 

"  Aw,  no  !  Let  him  be.  He  likes  to  go  off  by 
himself  and  do  his  thinking.  I  notice  it  rattles 
211 


THE   DESERT  AND  THE   SOWN 

him  to  be  talked  to  much.  He  sets  out  there  on 
the  choppin'-block,  looking  at  the  bluffs  —  ever 
notice  ?  He  looks  and  don't  see  nothin',  and  his 
lips  keep  moving  like  he  was  learning  a  spellin'- 
lesson.  If  I  speak  to  him  sharp,  he  hauls  himself 
together  and  smiles  uneasy,  but  he  don't  know 
what  I  said.  I  tell  you  he  's  waking  up ;  coming 
to  his  memories,  and  trying  to  sort  'em  out." 

"  That 's  just  what  /  say,"  Aunt  Polly  retorted, 
"but  he  's  got  to  eat  his  meals.  He  can't  live  on 
memories." 

Uncle  John  was  restless  that  evening,  and  ap 
peared  to  be  excited.  He  waited  upon  Aunt  Polly 
after  supper  with  a  feverish  eagerness  to  be  of  use. 
When  all  was  in  order  for  bedtime,  and  Leander 
rose  to  wind  the  clock,  he  spoke.  It  was  getting 
about  time  to  roll  up  his  blankets  and  pull  out,  he 
said.  Leander  felt  for  the  ledge  where  the  clock- 
key  belonged,  and  made  no  answer. 

"  I  was  saying  —  I  guess  it 's  about  time  for  me 
to  be  moving  on.  The  grass  is  starting  " 

"Are  you  cal'latin'  to  live  on  grass?"  Leander 
drawled  with  cutting  irony.  "  Gettin'  tired  of  the 
old  woman's  cooking?  Well,  she  ain't  much  of  a 
cook !  " 

Uncle  John  remained  silent,  working  at  his 
212 


PILGRIMS   AND   STRANGERS 

hands.  His  mouth  trembled  under  his  thin  strag 
gling  beard.  "  I  never  was  better  treated  in  my 
life,  and  you  know  it.  It  ain't  handsome  of  you, 
Lewis,  to  talk  that  way  !  "  !  ' 

"  He  don't  mean  nothing,  Uncle  John  !  t  What 
makes  you  so  foolish,  Looander !  He  just  wants 
you  to  know  there  's  no  begrudgers  around  here. 
You  're  welcome,  and  more  than  welcome,  to  settle 
down  and  camp  right  along  with  us." 

"  Winter  and  summer !  "  Leander  put  in,  "  if 
you  're  satisfied.  There  's  nobody  in  a  hurry  to  see 
the  last  of  ye." 

Uncle  John's  mild  but  determined  resistance  was 
a  keen  disappointment  to  his  friends.  Leander 
thought  himself  offended.  "  What  fly  's  stung 
you,  anyhow!  Heard  from  any  of  your  folks 
lately?" 

The  old  man  smiled. 

"  Got  any  money  salted  down  that  needs  turn- 

ing?"  SB 

"  Looander  !     Quit  teasing  of  him  !  " 
"  Let  him  have  his  fun,  ma'am.     It 's  all  he  's 
likely  to  get  out  of  me.     I  have  got  a  little  money," 
he  pursued.     "  'T  would  be  an  insult  to  name  it 
in  the  same  breath  with  what  you  've  done  for  me. 
I  'd  like  to  leave  it  here,  though.     You  could  pass 
213 


THE   DESERT   AND  THE   SOWN 

it  on.  You  '11  have  chances  enough.  'T  ain't 
likely  I  '11  be  the  last  one  you  '11  take  in  and  do 
for,  and  never  git  nothing  out  of  it  in  return." 

There  was  a  mild  sensation,  as  the  speaker, 
fumbling  in  his  loose  trousers,  appeared  to  be  seek 
ing  for  that  money.  Aunt  Polly's  eyes  flamed 
indignation  behind  her  tears.  She  was  a  foolish, 
warm-hearted  creature,  and  her  eyes  watered  on 
the  least  excuse. 

"  Looander,  you  should  n't  have  taunted  him," 
she  admonished  her  husband,  who  felt  he  had  been 
a  little  rough. 

"  Look  here,  Uncle  John,  d'  you  ever  know 
anybody  who  was  n't  by  way  of  needing  help  some 
time  in  their  lives  ?  We  don't  ask  any  one  who 
comes  here  "  — 

"  He  did  n't  come  !  "  Aunt  Polly  corrected. 

"  Well,  who  was  brought,  then !  We  don't  ask 
for  their  character,  nor  their  private  history,  nor 
their  bank  account.  I  don't  know  but  you  're  the 
first  one  for  years  I  Ve  ever  took  a  real  personal 
shine  to,  and  we  've  h'isted  a  good  many  up  them 
stairs  that  was  n't  able  to  walk  much  further.  I  'd 
like  you  to  stay  as  a  favor  to  us,  dang  it !  " 

Leander  delivered  this  invitation  as  if  it  were  a 
threat.  His  straight-cut  mustache  stiffened  and 
214 


PILGRIMS   AND   STRANGERS 

projected  itself  by  the  pressure  of  his  big  lips  ;  his 
dark  red  throat  showed  as  many  obstinate  creases 
as  an  old  snapping-turtle's. 

"  I  'm  much  obliged  to  you  both.  I  want  you 
to  remember  that.  We  —  I  —  I  '11  talk  with  ye 
in  the  morning." 

"  That  means  he  's  going  all  the  same,"  said 
Leander,  after  Uncle  John  had  closed  the  outside 
door. 

Sure  enough,  next  morning  he  had  made  up  his 
little  pack,  oiled  his  boots,  and  by  breakfast-time 
was  ready  for  the  road.  They  argued  the  point 
long  and  fiercely  with  him  whether  he  should  set 
out  on  foot  or  wait  a  day  and  ride  with  Leander 
to  the  Ferry.  It  was  not  supposed  he  could  be 
thinking  of  any  other  road.  By  to-morrow,  if  he 
would  but  wait,  Aunt  Polly  would  have  comfortably 
outfitted  him  after  the  custom  of  the  house  ;  given 
his  clothes  a  final  "  going  over  "  to  see  everything 
taut  for  the  journey,  shoved  a  week's  rations  into  a 
corn-sack,  choosing  such  condensed  forms  of  nour 
ishment  as  the  system  allowed  —  nay,  straining  a 
point  and  smuggling  in  a  nefarious  pound  or  two 
of  real  miner's  coffee. 

Aunt  Polly's  distress  so  weighed  with  her  patient 
that  he  consented  to  remain  overnight  and  ride 
215 


THE   DESERT  AND  THE  SOWN 

with  Leander  as  far  as  the  dam  across  the  Bru- 
neau,  at  its  junction  with  the  Snake.  There  he 
would  cross  and  take  the  trail  down  the  river,  cut 
ting  off  several  miles  of  the  road  to  the  Ferry.  As 
for  going  on  to  see  Jimmy  or  Jimmy's  "  folks," 
the  nervous  resistance  which  this  plan  excited 
warned  the  good  couple  not  to  press  the  old  man 
too  far,  or  he  might  give  them  the  slip  altogether. 

A  strangeness  in  his  manner  which  this  last 
discussion  had  brought  out,  lay  heavy  on  aunt 
Polly's  mind  all  day  after  the  departure  of  the 
team  for  the  Ferry.  She  watched  the  two  men 
drive  off  in  silence,  Leander's  bush  beard  redden 
ing  in  the  sun,  his  big  body  filling  more  than  his 
half  of  the  seat. 

"  Well,  by  Gum  !  If  he  ain't  the  blamedest, 
most  per-sistent  old  fool !  "  he  complained  to  his 
wife  that  night.  Their  first  words  were  of  the  old 
man,  already  missed  like  one  of  the  family  from 
the  humble  place  he  had  made  for  himself.  Le 
ander  was  still  irritable  over  his  loss.  "  I  set  him 
down  with  his  grub  and  blankets,  and  I  watched 
him  footing  it  acrost  the  dam.  He  done  it  real 
handsome,  steady  on  his  pins.  Then  he  set  down 
and  waited,  kind  o'  dreaming,  like  he  used  to,  set- 
tin'  on  the  choppin'-block.  I  hailed  him.  '  What 's 
216 


PILGRIMS   AND   STRANGERS 

the  matter  ? '  I  says.  '  Left  anything  ? '  No :  every 
time  I  hailed  he  took  off  his  hat  and  waved  to 
me  real  pleasant.  Nothing  the  matter.  There  he 
set.  Well,  thinks  I,  I  can't  stay  here  all  day 
watching  ye  take  root.  So  I  drove  on  a  piece. 
And,  by  Gurn !  when  I  looked  back  going  around 
the  bend,  there  he  went  a-pikin'  off  up  the  bluffs 

—  just  a-humping  himself  for  all  he  was  worth. 
I  wouldn't  like  to  think  he  was  cunning,  but  it 
looked    that  way  for   sure,  —  turning  me  off  the 
scent  and  then  taking  to  the  bluffs  like  he  was  sent 
for  !     Where  in  thunder  is  he  making  for  ?     He 
knows  just  as  well  as  I  do  —  you  have  heard  me 
tell  him  a  dozen  times  —  the  stages  were  hauled  off 
that  Wood  River  road  five  year  and  more  ago.    He 
won't  git  nowhere !     And  he  won't  meet  up  with 
a  team  in  a  week's  walking." 

"  His  food  will  last  him  a  week  if  he  's  careful ; 
he  's  no  great  eater.  I  ain't  afraid  his  feet  will  get 
lost ;  he  's  to  home  out  of  doors  almost  anywhere  ; 

—  it 's  his  head  I  'm  afraid  of.     He  's  got  some 
sort  of  a  skew  on  him.     I  used  to  notice  if  he  went 
out  for  a  little  walk  anywhere,  he  'd  always  slope 
for  the  East." 


217 


XX 

A  STATION  IN  THE  DESERT 

THAT  forsworn  identity  which  Adam  Bogar- 
dus  had  submitted  to  be  clothed  in  as  a  burial 
garment  was  now  become  a  thing  for  the  living  to 
flee  from.  He  had  seen  a  woman  in  full  health 
whiten  and  cower  before  it ;  —  she  who  stood  be 
side  his  bed  and  looked  at  him  with  dreadful  eyes, 
eyes  of  his  girl-wife  growing  old  in  the  likeness 
of  her  father.  Hard,  reluctant  eyes  forced  to  own 
the  truth  which  the  ashen  lips  denied.  Are  we 
responsible  for  our  silences  ?  He  had  not  spoken 
to  her.  Nay,  the  living  must  speak  first,  or  the 
ghostly  dead  depart  unquestioned.  He  asked  only 
that  he  might  forget  her  and  be  himself  forgotten. 
If  it  were  that  woman's  right  to  call  herself  Emily 
Bogardus,  then  was  there  no  Adam  her  husband. 
Better  the  old  disguise  which  left  him  free  to  work 
out  his  own  sentence  and  pay  his  forfeit  to  the  law. 
He  had  never  desired  that  one  breath  of  it  should 
be  commuted,  or  wished  to  accept  an  enslaving 
218 


A   STATION   IN  THE  DESERT 

pardon  from  those  for  whose  sake  he  had  put  him 
self  out  of  the  way.  If  he  could  have  taken  his 
own  comparative  spiritual  measurement,  he  might 
have  smiled  at  the  humor  of  that  forgiveness 
promised  him  in  the  name  of  the  Highest  by  his 
son. 

For  many  peaceful  years  solitude  had  been  the 
habit  of  his  soul.  Gently  as  he  bore  with  human 
obligations,  he  escaped  from  them  with  a  sense  of 
relief  which  shamed  him  somewhat  when  he  thought 
of  the  good  friends  to  whom  he  owed  this  very 
blessed  power  to  flee.  It  was  quite  as  Leander 
had  surmised.  He  could  not  command  his  facul 
ties  —  memory  especially  —  when  a  noise  of  many 
words  and  questions  bruised  his  brain. 

The  stillness  of  the  desert  closed  about  him  with 
delicious  healing.  He  was  a  world-weary  child 
returned  to  the  womb  of  Nature.  His  old  camp- 
craft  came  back ;  his  eye  for  distance,  his  sense  of 
the  trail,  his  little  pet  economies  with  food  and  fire. 
There  was  no  one  to  tell  him  what  to  eat  and  when 
to  eat  it.  He  was  invisible  to  men.  Each  day's 
march  built  up  his  muscle,  and  every  night's  deep 
sleep  under  the  great  high  stars  steadied  his  nerves 
and  tightened  his  resolve. 

He  thought  of  the  young  man  —  his  son  —  with 
219 


THE   DESERT  AND  THE   SOWN 

a  mixture  of  pain  and  tenderness.  But  Paul  was 
not  the  baby-boy  he  had  put  out  of  his  arms  with  a 
father's  smile  at  One  Man  station.  Paul  was  him 
self  a  man  now ;  he  had  coerced  him  at  the  last, 
neither  did  he  understand. 

The  blind  instinct  of  flight  began  after  a  while 
to  shape  its  own  direction.  It  was  no  new  lean 
ing  with  the  packer.  As  many  times  as  he  had 
crossed  this  trail  he  never  had  failed  to  experience 
the  same  pull.  He  resisted  no  longer.  He  gave 
way  to  strange  fancies  and  made  them  his  guides. 

At  some  time  during  his  flight  from  the  hos 
pital,  in  one  of  those  blanks  that  overtook  him,  he 
knew  not  how,  he  had  met  with  a  great  loss.  The 
words  had  slipped  from  his  memory  —  of  that  mes 
sage  which  had  kept  him  in  fancied  touch  with 
his  wife  all  these  many  deluding  years.  Without 
them  he  was  like  a  drunkard  deprived  of  his  habit 
ual  stimulant.  The  craving  to  connect  and  hold 
them  —  for  they  came  to  him  sometimes  in  tanta 
lizing  freaks  of  memory,  and  slipped  away  again 
like  beads  rolling  off  a  broken  thread  —  was  almost 
the  only  form  of  mental  suffering  he  was  now  con 
scious  of.  What  had  become  of  the  message 
itself  ?  Had  they  left  it  exposed  to  every  heartless 
desecration  in  that  abandoned  spot  ?  —  a  scrap  of 
220 


A  STATION  IN  THE  DESERT 

paper  driven  like  a  bit  of  tumble-weed  before  the 
wind,  snatched  at  by  spikes  of  sage,  trampled  into 
the  mire  of  cattle,  nuzzled  by  wild  beasts?  Or, 
had  they  put  it  away  with  that  other  beast  where 
he  lay  with  the  scoff  on  his  dead  face?  Out  of 
dreams  and  visions  of  the  night  that  place  of  the 
parting  ways  called  to  him,  and  the  time  was  now 
come  when  he  must  go. 

He  approached  it  by  one  of  those  desert  trails 
that  circle  for  miles  on  the  track  of  water  and 
pounce  as  a  bird  drops  upon  its  prey  into  the 
trampled  hollow  at  One  Man  station  —  a  place  for 
the  gathering  of  hoofs  in  the  midst  of  the  plain. 

He  could  trace  what  might  have  been  the  foun 
dation  of  a  house,  a  few  blackened  stones,  a  hearth 
stone  showing  where  a  chimney  perhaps  had  stood, 
but  these  evidences  of  habitation  would  never  have 
been  marked  except  by  one  who  knew  where  to 
look.  He  searched  the  ground  over  for  signs  of 
the  tragedy  that  bound  him  to  that  spot  —  a 
smiling  desolation,  a  sunny  nothingness.  The 
effect  of  this  careless  obliteration  was  quieting. 
Nature  had  played  here  once  with  two  men  and  a 
woman.  One  of  the  toy  men  was  lost,  the  other 
broken.  She  had  forgotten  where  she  put  the 
broken  one.  There  were  mounds  which  looked  like 
221 


THE  DESERT  AND  THE   SOWN 

graves,  but  the  seeker  knew  that  artificial  mounds 
in  a  place  like  this  soon  sink  into  hollows;  and 
there  were  hollows  like  open  graves,  filled  with 
unsightly  human  rubbish,  washed  in  by  the  yearly 
rains. 

He  spent  three  days  in  the  hollow,  doing  nothing, 
steeped  in  sunshine,  lying  down  to  rest  broad 
awake  in  the  tender  twilight,  making  his  peace 
with  this  place  of  bitter  memory  before  bidding  it 
good-by.  His  thoughts  turned  eastward  as  the 
planets  rose.  Time  he  was  working  back  towards 
home.  He  would  hardly  get  there  if  he  started 
now,  before  his  day  was  done.  He  saw  his  mother's 
grave  beside  his  father's,  in  the  southeast  corner 
of  the  burying-ground,  where  the  trees  were  thin. 
All  who  drove  in  through  the  big  gate  of  funerals 
could  see  the  tall  white  shafts  of  the  Beviers  and 
Brodericks  and  Van  Eltens,  but  only  those  who 
came  on  foot  could  approach  his  people  in  the 
gravelly  side-hill  plots.  "  I  'd  like  to  be  put  there 
alongside  the  old  folks  in  that  warm  south  corner." 
He  could  see  their  names  on  the  plain  gray  slate 
stones,  rain-stained  and  green  with  moss. 

On  the  third  May  evening  of  his  stay  the  hori 
zon  became  a  dust-cloud,  the  setting  sun  a  ball  of 
fire.  Loomed  the  figure  of  a  rider  topping  the  heav- 
222 


A   STATION   IN  THE   DESERT 

ing  backs  of  his  herd.  All  together  they  came 
lumbering  down  the  slopes,  all  heading  fiercely  for 
the  water.  The  rider  plunged  down  a  side-draw 
out  of  the  main  cloud.  Clanking  bells,  shuffling 
hoofs,  the  "  Whoop-ee-youp !  "  came  fainter  up  the 
gulch.  The  cowboy  was  not  pleased  as  he  dashed 
by  to  see  an  earlier  camp-fire  smoking  in  the  hol 
low.  But  he  was  less  displeased,  being  half  French, 
than  if  he  had  been  pure-bred  American. 

The  old  man,  squatting  by  his  cooking-fire,  gave 
him  a  civil  nod,  and  he  responded  with  a  flourish 
of  his  quirt.  The  reek  of  sage  smoke,  the  smell  of 
dust  and  cattle  rose  rank  on  the  cooling  air.  It 
was  good  to  Boniface,  son  of  the  desert ;  it  meant 
supper  and  bed,  or  supper  and  talk,  for  "  Bonny  " 
Maupin  ("  Bonny  Moppin,"  it  went  in  the  vernacu 
lar)  would  talk  every  other  man  to  sleep,  full  or 
empty,  with  songs  thrown  in.  To-night,  however, 
he  must  talk  on  an  empty  stomach,  for  his  chuck 
wagon  was  not  in  sight. 

"  Wich  way  you  travelin'  ?  "  he  began,  lightx 
ing  up  after  a  long  pull  at  his  flask.  The  old  man 
had  declined,  though  he  looked  as  if  he  needed  a 
drink. 

"  East  about,"  was  the  answer. 

"Goin'  far?" 

223 


THE  DESERT  AND  THE   SOWN 

"  Well ;  summer 's  before  us.  I  cal'late  to  keep 
moving  till  snow  falls." 

"  Shucks  !  You  ain'  pressed  for  time.  Maybe 
you  got  some  friend  back  there.  Goin'  back  to 
git  married  ?  "  He  winked  genially  to  point  the 
jest  and  the  old  man  smiled  indulgently. 

"  Won't  you  set  up  and  take  a  bite  with  me  ? 
You  don't  look  to  have  much  of  a  show  for  supper 
along." 

"  Thanks,  very  much  !  I  had  bully  breakfast  at 
Rock  Spring  middlin'  late  this  morning.  They 
butcherin'  at  that  place.  Five  fat  hog.  My 
chuck  wagon  he  stay  behin'  for  chunk  of  fresh  pig. 
I  won'  spoil  my  appetide  for  that  tenderloin.  Hoi' 
on  yourself  an'  take  supper  wis  me.  No?  —  That 
fellah  be  'long  'bout  Chris'mas  if  he  don'  git  los' ! 
He  always  behin',  pig  or  no  pig !  " 

Bonny  strolled  away  collecting  fire-wood.  Pre 
sently  he  called  back,  pointing  dramatically  with 
his  small-toed  boot.  "  Who  's  been  coyotin'  round 
here?"  The  hard  ground  was  freshly  disturbed 
in  spots  as  by  the  paws  of  some  small  inquisitive 
animal.  There  was  no  answer. 

"  What  you  say  ?  Whose  surface  diggin's  is 
these  ?  I  never  know  anybody  do  some  mining 
here." 

224 


A  STATION   IN  THE   DESERT 

"  That  was  me  "  —  Bonny  backed  a  little  nearer 
to  catch  the  old  man's  words.  "  I  was  looking 
round  here  for  something  I  lost." 

"  What  luck  you  have  ?     You  fin'  him  ?  " 

"  Well,  now,  doos  it  reely  matter  to  you, 
sonny  ?  " 

"  Pardner,  it  don'  matter  to  me  a  d — n,  if 
you  say  so !  I  was  jus'  askin'  myself  what  a  man 
would  look  for  if  he  los'  it  here.  Since  I  strike 
this  'ell  of  a  place  the  very  groun'  been  chewed  up 
and  spit  out  reg'lar,  one  hundred  times  a  year. 
'Tisagris'mill!" 

"  I  did  n't  gretly  expect  to  find  what  I  was  look- 
in'  for.  I  was  just  foolin'  around  to  satisfy  my 
self." 

"  That  satisfy  me  !  "  said  Bonny  pleasantly  ; 
and  yet  he  was  a  trifle  discomfited.  .  He  strolled 
away  again  and  began  to  sing  with  a  boyish  show 
of  indifference  to  having  been  called  "  sonny." 

"  Oh,  Sally  is  the  gal  for  me  ! 
Oh,  Sally  's  the  gal  for  me  I 
On  moonlight  night  when  the  star  is  bright  — 
Oh"  — 

"  Halloa  !     This  some  more  your  work,  oncle  ? 
You  ain'  got  no  chicken  wing   for  arm  if  you  lif 
this.  —  Ah,  be  dam !   I  see  what  you  lif  him  with. 
225 


THE   DESERT  AND  THE   SOWN 

All  same  stove-lid."  Talking  and  swearing  to 
himself  cheerfully,  Bonny  applied  the  end  of  a 
broken  whiffletree  to  the  blunt  lip  of  the  old 
hearthstone  which  marked  the  stage-house  chim 
ney.  He  had  tried  a  step-dance  on  it  and  found  it 
hollow.  More  fresh  digging,  and  marks  upon  the 
stone  where  some  prying  tool  had  taken  hold  and 
slipped,  showed  he  was  not  the  first  who  had  been 
curious. 

"  There  you  go,  over  on  you'  back,  like  snap' 
turtle ;  I  see  where  you  lay  there  before.  What 
the  dev' !  I  say !  "  Bonny,  much  excited  with  his 
find,  extracted  a  rusty  tin  tobacco-box  from  the 
hole,  pried  open  the  spring  lid  and  drew  forth  its 
contents  :  a  discolored  canvas  bag  bulging  with 
coin  and  whipped  around  the  neck  with  a  leather 
whang.  The  canvas  was  rotten  ;  Bonny  supported 
its  contents  tenderly  as  he  brought  it  over  to  the 
old  man. 

"  Oncle,  I  ask  you'  pardon  for  tappin'  that 
safe.  Pretty  good  lil'  nest-egg,  eh  ?  But  now 
you  got  to  find  her  some  other  place." 

"  That  don't  belong  to  me,"  said  the  old  man 
indifferently. 

"  Aw  —  don't  be  bashful !  I  onderstan'  now 
what  you  los'.  You  dig  here  —  there — migs  up 
226 


A  STATION  IN  THE  DESERT 

the  scent.  I  just  happen  to  step  on  that  stone  — 
ring  him,  so,  with  my  boot-heel !  " 

"  That  ain't  my  pile,"  the  other  persisted.  "  I 
started  to  build  a  fire  on  that  stone  two  nights  ago. 
It  rung  hollow  like  you  say.  I  looked  and  found 
what  you  found." 

—  "  And  put  her  back  !  My  soul  to  God  ! 
An'  you  here  all  by  you' self  !  " 

"  Why  not  ?     The  stuff  ain't  mine." 

"  Who  is  she  ?  How  long  since  anybody  live 
here?" 

"I  don't  know, —  good  while,  I  guess." 

"  Well,  sar  !  Look  here  !  I  open  that  bag.  I 
count  two  hondre'  thirteen  dolla'  —  make  it  twelve 
for  luck,  an'  call  it  you'  diwee !  You  strike  her 
first.  What  you  say  :  we  go  snac'  ?  " 

"  I  have  n't  got  any  use  for  that  money.  You 
need  n't  talk  to  me  about  it." 

"  Got  no  h'use  !  —  are  you  a  reech  man  ?  Got 
you'  private  car  waitin'  for  you  out  in  d'  sage 
brush  ?  Sol'  a  mine  lately  ?  " 

"I  don't  know  why  it  strikes  you  so  funny. 
It 's  no  concern  of  mine  if  a  man  puts  his  money 
in  the  ground  and  goes  off  and  leaves  it." 

"  Goes  off  and  die !  There  was  one  man  live 
here  by  himself  —  he  die,  they  say,  *  with  his  boots 
227 


THE  DESERT  AND  THE   SOWN 

on.'  He,  I  think,  mus'  be  that  man  belong  to 
this  money.  What  an  old  stiff  want  with  two 
hondre'  thirteen  dolla'  ?  That  money  goin'  into  a 
live  man's  clothes."  Bonny  slapped  his  chap- 
pereros,  and  the  dust  flew. 

"  I  've  no  objection  to  its  going  into  your 
clothes,"  said  the  old  man. 

"You  thing  I  ain'  particular,  me?  Well,  eef 
the  party  underground  was  my  frien',  and  I  knew 
his  fam'ly,  and  was  sure  the  money  was  belong 
to  him  —  I  'd  do  differend  —  perhaps.  Mais, 
—  it  is  going  —  going  —  gone  !  You  won'  go 
snac'?" 

The  old  man  smiled  and  looked  steadily  away. 

"  Bias'  me  to  h — 1 !  but  you  aire  the  firs'  man 
ever  I  strike  that  jib  at  the  sight  of  col'  coin.  She 
don'  frighten  me  !  " 

Bonny  always  swore  when  he  felt  embarrassed. 

"  Well,  sar !  Look  here !  You  fin'  you'self 
so  blame  indifferend  —  s'pose  you  so  indifferend 
not  to  say  nothing  'bout  this,  when  my  swamper 
fellah  git  in.  I  don'  wish  to  go  snac'  wis  him.  I 
don' feel  oblige'.  See?" 

"  What  you  want  to  pester  me  about  this  money 
for !  "  The  old  man  was  weary.  "  I  did  n't  come 
here,  lookin'  for  money,  and  I  don't  expect  to 
228 


A   STATION   IN  THE   DESERT 

take  none  away  with  me.     So  I  '11  say  good-night 

to  ye." 

"  Hoi'  on,  hoi'  on  !     Don'  git  mad.    What  time 

you  goin'  off  in  the  morning  ?  " 

"  Before  you  do,  I  should  n't  wonder." 

"  But  hoi' !     One  fine  idea  —  Llazin'  good  idea 

—  just  hit  me  now  in  the  head !     Wan'  to  come 
on  to  Chicago  wis  me  ?     I  drop  this  fellah  at  Fel- 
ton.     He  take  the  team  back,  and  I  get  some  one 
to  help  me  on  the  treep.     Why  not  you  ?     Ever 
tek'  care  of  stock?" 

"  Some  consid'able  years  ago  I  used  to  look  after 
stock.  Guess  I  'd  know  an  ox  from  a  heifer." 

"  Ever  handle  'em  on  cattle-car  ?  " 

"  Never." 

"  Well,  all  there  is,  you  feed  'em,  and  water  'em, 
and  keep  'em  on  their  feets.  If  one  fall  down,  all 
the  others  they  have  too  much  play.  They  rock  " 

—  Bonny  exhibited  —  "  and  fall  over  and  pile  up 
in  heap.     I  like  to  do  one  turn  for  you.    We  goin' 
the  same  way  —  you  bring  me  the  good  luck,  like 
a    bird    in    the    han'.     This  is  my  clean-up,  you 
understand.      You  bring  me  the  beautiful  luck. 
You  turn  me  up  right  bower  first  slap.     Now  it 's 
goin'  be  my  deal.     I  like  to  do  by  you !  " 

The  packer  turned  over  and  looked  up  at  the 
229 


THE  DESERT  AND   THE   SOWN 

cool  sky,  pricked  through  with  early  stars.  He 
was  silent  a  long  time.  His  pale  old  face  was  like 
a  fine  bit  of  carving  in  the  dusk. 

"  What  you  think  ?  "  asked  Moppin,  almost  ten 
derly.  "  I  thing  you  better  come  wis  me.  You 
too  hold  a  man  to  go  like  so  —  alone." 

"  I  '11  have  to  think  about  it  first ;  —  let  you 
know  in  the  morning." 


230 


XXI 

INJURIOUS    REPORTS    CONCERNING    AN    OLD 
HOUSE 

A  RUSH  of  wheels  and  a  spatter  of  hoofs 
coining  up  the  drive  sent  Mrs.  Dunlop  to 
the  sitting-room  window.  She  tried  to  see  out 
through  streaming  showers  that  darkened  the 
panes. 

"  Is  n't  that  Mrs.  Bogardus  ?  Why,  it  is !  Put 
on  your  shoes,  Chauncey,  quick !  Help  her  in 
'n'  take  her  horse  to  the  shed.  Take  an  umbrella 
with  you."  Chauncey  the  younger,  meekly  drying 
his  shoes  by  the  kitchen  fire,  put  them  on,  not  stop 
ping  to  lace  them,  and  slumped  down  the  porch 
steps,  pursued  by  his  mother's  orders.  She  watched 
him  a  moment  struggling  with  a  cranky  umbrella, 
and  then  turned  her  attention  to  herself  and  the 
room. 

Mrs.  Bogardus  made  her  calls  in  the  morning, 
and  always  plainly  on  business.  She  had  not  seen 
the  inside  of  Cerissa's  parlor  for  ten  years.  This 
231 


THE   DESERT   AND  THE   SOWN 

was  a  grievance  which  Cerissa  referred  to  spas 
modically,  being  seized  with  it  when  she  was  other 
wise  low  in  her  mind. 

"  My  sakes  !  Can't  I  remember  my  mother  tell 
ing  how  her  mother  used  to  drive  over  and  spend 
the  afternoon,  and  bring  her  sewing  and  the  baby 
—  whichever  one  was  the  baby.  They  called  each 
other  Chrissy  and  Angevine,  and  now  she  don't 
even  speak  of  her  own  children  to  us  by  their  first 
names.  It 's  '  Mrs.  Bowen  '  and  '  Mr.  Paul ; ' 
just  as  if  she  was  talking  to  her  servants." 

"  What 's  that  to  us  ?  We  've  got  a  good 
home  here  for  as  long  as  we  want  to  stay.  She  's 
easy  to  work  for,  if  you  do  what  she  says." 

Chauncey  respected  Mrs.  Bogardus's  judgment 
and  her  straightforward  business  habits.  Other 
matters  he  left  alone.  But  Cerissa  was  ambitious 
and  emotional,  and  she  stayed  indoors,  doing  little 
things  and  thinking  small  thoughts.  She  resented 
her  commanding  neighbor's  casual  manners.  There 
was  something  puzzling  and  difficult  to  meet  in  her 
plainness  of  speech,  which  excluded  the  personal 
relation.  It  was  like  the  cut  and  finish  of  her 
clothes  —  mysterious  in  their  simplicity,  and  not 
to  be  imitated  cheaply. 

When  the  two  met,  Cerissa  was  immediately 
232 


INJURIOUS   REPORTS 

reduced  to  a  state  of  flimsy  apology  which  she  made 
up  for  by  being  particularly  hot  and  self-assertive 
in  speaking  of  the  lady  afterward. 

"  There  is  the  parlor,  in  perfect  order,"  she 
fretted,  as  she  stood  waiting  to  open  the  front  door ; 
"  but  of  course  she  would  n't  let  me  take  her  in 
there  —  that  would  be  too  much  like  visiting." 

The  next  moment  she  had  corrected  her  facial 
expression,  and  was  offering  smiling  condolences  to 
Mrs.  Bogardus  on  the  state  of  her  attire. 

"  It  is  only  my  jacket.  You  might  put  that 
somewhere  to  dry,"  said  the  lady  curtly.  Rain 
drops  sparkled  on  the  wave  of  thick  iron-gray  hair 
that  lifted  itself,  with  a  slight  turn  to  one  side, 
from  her  square  low  brow.  Her  eyes  shone  dark 
against  the  fresh  wind  color  in  her  cheeks.  She 
had  the  straight,  hard,  ophidian  line  concealing  the 
eyelid,  which  gives  such  a  peculiar  strength  to  the 
direct  gaze  of  a  pair  of  dark  eyes.  If  one  suspects 
the  least  touch  of  tenderness,  possibly  of  pain, 
behind  that  iron  fold,  it  lends  a  fascination  equal 
to  the  strength.  There  was  some  excitement  in 
Mrs.  Bogardus's  manner,  but  Cerissa  did  not  know 
her  well  enough  to  perceive  it.  She  merely  thought 
her  looking  handsomer,  and,  if  possible,  more  for 
midable  than  usual. 

233 


THE   DESERT  AND  THE   SOWN 

She  sat  by  the  fire,  folding  her  skirts  across  her 
knees,  and  showing  the  edges  of  the  most  discour- 
agingly  beautiful  petticoats,  —  a  taste  perhaps  in 
herited  from  her  wide-hipped  Dutch  progenitresses. 
Mrs.  Bogardus  reveled  in  costly  petticoats,  and  had 
an  unnecessary  number  of  them. 

"  How  nice  it  is  in  here !  "  she  said,  looking 
about  her.  Cerissa,  with  the  usual  apologies,  had 
taken  her  into  the  kitchen  to  dry  her  skirts.  There 
was  a  slight  taint  of  steaming  shoe  leather,  left  by 
Chauncey  when  driven  forth.  Otherwise  the  kitchen 
was  perfection,  —  the  family  room  of  an  old  Dutch 
farmhouse,  built  when  stone  and  hardwood  lumber 
were  cheap,  —  thick  walls ;  deep,  low  window-seats ; 
beams  showing  on  the  ceiling ;  a  modern  cooking- 
stove,  where  Emily  Bogardus  could  remember  the 
wrought  brass  andirons  and  iron  backlog,  for  this 
room  had  been  her  father's  dining-room.  The 
brick  tiled  hearth  remained,  and  the  color  of  those 
century  and  a  half  old  bricks  made  a  pitiful 
thing  of  Cerissa's  new  oil-cloth.  The  woodwork 
had  been  painted  —  by  Mrs.  Bogardus's  orders,  and 
much  to  Cerissa's  disgust  —  a  dark  kitchen  green, 
—  not  that  she  liked  the  color  herself,  but  it  was 
the  artistic  demand  of  the  moment,  —  and  the  place 
was  filled  with  a  green  golden  light  from  the  cherry- 
234 


INJURIOUS   REPORTS 

trees  close  to  the  window,  which  a  break  in  the 
clouds  had  suddenly  illumined. 

"  You  keep  it  beautifully,"  said  Mrs.  Bogardus, 
her  eyes  shedding  compliments  as  she  looked 
around.  "  I  should  not  dare  go  in  my  own  kitchen 
at  this  time  of  day.  There  are  no  women  nowadays 
who  know  how  to  work  in  the  way  ladies  used  to 
work.  If  I  could  have  such  a  housekeeper  as  you, 
Cerissa." 

Cerissa  flushed  and  bridled.  "What  would 
Chauncey  do ! " 

"I  don't  expect  you  to  be  my  housekeeper," 
Mrs.  Bogardus  smiled.  "  But  I  envy  Chauncey." 

"  She  has  come  to  ask  a  favor,"  thought  Cerissa. 
"  I  never  knew  her  so  pleasant,  for  nothing.  She 
wants  me  to  do  up  her  fruit,  I  guess."  Cerissa 
was  mistaken.  Mrs.  Bogardus  simply  was  happy 
—  or  almost  happy  —  and  deeply  stirred  over  a 
piece  of  news  which  had  come  to  her  in  that  morn 
ing's  mail. 

"  I  have  telephoned  Bradley  not  to  send  his  men 
over  on  Monday.  My  son  is  bringing  his  wife 
home.  They  may  be  here  all  summer.  The  place 
belongs  to  them  now.  Did  Chauncey  tell  you? 
Mr.  Paul  writes  that  he  has  some  building  plans 
of  his  own,  and  he  wishes  everything  left  as  it  is 
235 


THE   DESERT  AND   THE   SOWN 

for  the  present,  especially  this  house.  He  wants 
his  wife  to  see  it  first  just  as  it  is." 

"  Well,  to  be  sure  !  They  've  been  traveling  a 
long  time,  have  n't  they  ?  And  how  is  his  health 
now  ?  " 

"  Oh,  he  is  very  well  indeed.  You  will  be  glad 
not  to  have  the  trouble  of  those  carpenters,  Cerissa  ? 
Pulling  down  old  houses  is  dirty  work." 

"  Oh,  dear  !  I  would  n't  mind  the  dirt.  Any 
thing  to  get  rid  of  that  old  rat's  nest  on  top  of  the 
kitchen  chamber.  I  hate  to  have  such  out  of  the 
way  places  on  my  mind.  I  can't  get  around  to  do 
every  single  thing,  and  it's  years  —  years,  Mrs. 
Bogardus,  since  I  could  get  a  woman  to  do  a  half- 
day's  cleaning  up  there  in  broad  daylight !  " 

Mrs.  Bogardus  stared.  What  was  the  woman 
talking  about ! 

"  I  call  it  a  regular  eyesore  on  the  looks  of  the 
house  besides.  And  it  keeps  all  the  old  stories 
alive." 

"What  stories?" 

"  Why,  of  course  your  father  was  n't  out  of  his 
head  —  we  all  know  that  —  when  he  built  that  up 
stairs  room  and  slep'  there  and  locked  himself  in 
every  night  of  his  life.  It  was  only  on  one  point 
he  was  a  little  warped :  the  fear  of  bein'  robbed. 
236 


INJURIOUS   REPORTS 

A  natural  fear,  too,  —  an  old  man  over  eighty  livin' 
in  such  a  lonesome  place  and  known  to  be  well  off. 
But  —  you  '11  excuse  my  repeating  the  talk  —  but 
the  story  goes  now  that  he  re'ly  went  insane  and 
was  confined  up  there  all  the  last  years  of  his  life. 
And  that 's  why  the  windows  have  got  bars  acrost 
them.  Everybody  notices  it,  and  they  ask  ques 
tions.  It 's  real  embarrassin',  for  of  course  I  don't 
want  to  discuss  the  family." 

"  Who  asks  questions  ?  "  Mrs.  Bogardus's  eyes 
were  hard  to  meet  when  her  voice  took  that  tone. 

"  Why,  the  city  folks  out  driving.  They  often 
drive  in  the  big  gate  and  make  the  circle  through 
the  grounds,  and  they  're  always  struck  when  they 
see  that  tower  bedroom  with  windows  like  a  prison. 
They  say,  '  What 's  the  story  about  that  room,  up 
there  ? '  " 

"  When  people  ask  you  questions  about  the 
house,  you  can  say  you  did  not  live  here  in  the 
owner's  time  and  you  don't  know.  That 's  per 
fectly  simple,  is  n't  it  ?  " 

"  But  I  do  know !  Everybody  knows,"  said 
Cerissa  hotly.  "  It  was  the  talk  of  the  whole 
neighborhood  when  that  room  was  put  up ;  and  I 
remember  how  scared  I  used  to  be  when  mother 
sent  me  over  here  of  an  errand." 
237 


THE   DESERT  AND  THE   SOWN 

Mrs.  Bogardus  rose  and  shook  out  her  skirts. 
"Will  Chauncey  bring  my  horse  when  it  stops 
raining  ?  By  the  way,  did  you  get  the  furniture 
down  that  was  in  that  room,  Cerissa  ?  —  the  old 
secretary  ?  I  am  going  to  have  it  put  in  order  for 
Mr.  Paul's  room.  Old  furniture  is  the  fashion 
now,  you.  know." 

Cerissa  caught  her  breath  nervously.  "Mrs. 
Bogardus  —  I  could  n't  do  a  thing  about  it !  I 
wanted  Chauncey  to  tell  you.  All  last  week  I  tried 
to  get  a  woman,  or  a  man,  to  come  and  help  me 
clear  out  that  place,  but  just  as  soon  as  they  find 
out  what 's  wanted  — '  You  '11  have  to  get  somebody 
else  for  that  job,'  they  say." 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  them  ?  " 

"  It 's  the  room,  Mrs.  Bogardus ;  if  I  was  you 
—  I  'm  doing  now  just  as  I  'd  be  done  by  —  I 
would  not  take  Mrs.  Paul  Bogardus  up  into  that 
room  —  not  even  in  broad  daylight ;  not  if  it  was 
my  son's  wife,  in  the  third  month  of  her  being  a 
wife." 

"  Well,  upon  my  word !  "  said  Mrs.  Bogardus, 
smiling  coldly.  "  Do  you  mean  to  say  these 
women  are  afraid  to  go  up  there  ?  " 

"  It  was  old  Mary  Hornbeck  who  started  the 
talk.  She  got  what  she  called  her  '  warning '  up 
238 


INJURIOUS   REPORTS 

there.  And  the  fact  is,  she  was  a  corpse  within 
six  months  from  that  day.  Chauncey  and  me,  we 
used  to  hear  noises,  but  old  houses  are  full  of 
noises.  We  never  thought  much  about  it ;  only, 
I  must  say  I  never  had  any  use  for  that  part  of  the 
house.  Chauncey  keeps  his  seeds  and  tools  in  the 
lower  room,  and  some  of  the  winter  vegetables,  and 
we  store  the  parlor  stove  in  there  in  summer." 

"  Well,  about  this  '  warning  '  ?  "  Mrs.  Bogardus 
interrupted. 

"  Yes  !  It  was  three  years  ago  in  May,  and  I 
remember  it  was  some  such  a  day  as  this  —  show 
ery  and  broken  overhead,  and  Mary  disappointed 
me ;  but  she  came  about  noon,  and  said  she  'd  put 
in  half  a  day  anyhow.  She  got  her  pail  and  house- 
cloths  ;  but  she  was  n't  gone  not  half  an  hour  when 
down  she  come  white  as  a  sheet,  and  her  mouth  as 
dry  as  chalk.  She  set  down  all  of  a  shake,  and  I 
give  her  a  drink  of  tea,  and  she  said :  '  I  would  n't 
go  up  there  again,  not  for  a  thousand  dollars.'  She 
unlocked  the  door,  she  said,  and  stepped  inside 
without  thinkin'.  Your  father's  old  rocker  with 
the  green  moreen  cushions  stood  over  by  the  east 
window,  where  he  used  to  sit.  She  heard  a  creak 
like  a  heavy  step  on  the  floor,  and  that  empty 
chair  across  the  room,  as  far  as  from  here  to  the 
239 


THE   DESERT  AND  THE   SOWN 

window,  begun  to  rock  as  if  somebody  had  just  rose 
up  from  them  cushions.  She  watched  it  till  it 
stopped.  Then  she  took  another  step,  and  the 
step  she  could  n't  see  answered  her,  and  the  chair 
begun  to  rock  again." 

"  Was  that  all  ?  " 

"  No,  ma'am  ;  that  was  n't  all.  I  don't  know 
if  you  remember  an  old  wall  clock  with  a  brass 
ball  on  top  and  brass  scrolls  down  the  sides  and  a 
painted  glass  door  in  front  of  the  pendulum  with  a 
picture  of  a  castle  and  a  lake  ?  The  paint 's  been 
wore  off  the  glass  with  cleaning,  so  the  pendulum 
shows  plain.  That  clock  has  not  been  wound  since 
we  come  to  live  here.  I  don't  believe  a  hand  has 
touched  it  since  the  night  he  was  carried  feet  fore 
most  out  of  that  room.  But  Mary  said  she  could 
count  the  strokes  go  tick,  tick,  tick !  She  listened 
till  she  could  have  counted  fifty,  for  she  was  struck 
dumb,  and  just  as  plain  as  the  clock  before  her 
face  she  could  see  the  minute-hand  and  the  pen 
dulum,  both  of  'em  dead  still.  Now,  how  do  you 
account  for  that ! 

"  I  told  Chauncey  about  it,  and  he  said  it  was 

all  foolishness.1     Do  all  I  could  he  would  go  up 

there  himself,  that  same  evening.     But  he  come 

down  again  after  a  while,  and  he  was  almost  as 

240 


INJURIOUS   REPORTS 

white  as  Mary.  '  Did  you  see  anything  ? '  I  says. 
4 1  saw  what  Mary  said  she  saw,'  says  he,  '  and  I 
heard  what  she  heard.'  But  no  one  can  make 
Chauncey  own  up  that  he  believes  it  was  any 
thing  supernatural.  '  There  is  a  reason  for  every 
thing,'  he  says.  '  The  miracles  and  ghosts  of 
one  generation  are  just  school-book  learning  to 
the  next ;  and  more  of  a  miracle  than  the  miracles 
themselves.'  ' 

"  Chauncey  shows  his  sense,"  Mrs.  Bogardus 
observed. 

"  He  was  real  disturbed,  though,  I  could  see  ;  and 
he  told  me  particular  not  to  make  any  talk  about 
it.  I  never  have  opened  the  subject  to  a  living  soul. 
But  when  Mary  died,  within  six  months,  folks  re 
peated  what  she  had  been  saying  about  her  '  warn 
ing.'  The  '  death  watch  '  she  called  it.  "We  can't 
all  of  us  control  our  feelings  about  such  things,  and 
she  was  a  lonely  widow  woman." 

"  Well,  do  you  believe  that  ticking  is  going  on 
up  there  now  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Bogardus. 

Cerissa  looked  uneasy. 

44  Is  the  door  locked  ?  " 

"  I  re'ly  could  n't  say,"  she  confessed. 

44  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  all  you  sensible  peo 
ple  in  this  house  have  avoided  that  room  for  three 
241 


THE   DESERT  AND  THE   SOWN 

years  ?  And  you  don't  even  know  If  the  door  is 
locked?" 

"I  —  I  don't  use  that  part  for  anything,  and 
cleaning  is  wasted  on  a  place  that 's  never  used, 
and  I  can't  get  anybody  "  — 

"  I  am  not  criticising  your  housekeeping.  Will 
you  go  up  there  with  me  now,  Cerissa?  I  want 
to  understand  about  this." 

"  What,  just  now,  do  you  mean  ?  I  'm  afraid  I 
have  n't  got  the  time  this  morning,  Mrs.  Bogardus. 
Dinner  's  at  half-past  twelve.  It 's  a  quarter  to 
eleven  "  — 

"  Very  well.     You  think  the  door  is  not  locked  ?  " 

"  If  it  is,  the  key  must  be  in  the  door.  Oh, 
don't  go,  please,  Mrs.  Bogardus.  Wait  till  Chaun- 
cey  comes  in  " 

"  I  wish  you  'd  send  Chauncey  up  when  he  does 
come  in.  Ask  him  to  bring  a  screw-driver."  Mrs. 
Bogardus  rose  and  examined  her  jacket.  It  was 
still  damp.  She  asked  for  a  cape,  or  some  sort  of 
wrap,  as  her  waist  was  thin,  and  the  rain  had 
chilled  the  morning  air. 

For  the  sake  of  decency,  Cerissa  escorted  her 

visitor  across  the  hall  passage  into  the  loom-room 

—  a  loom-room  in  name  only  for  upwards  of  three 

generations.     Becky  had  devoted  it  to  the  rough 

242 


INJURIOUS   REPORTS 

work  of  the  house,  and  to  certain  special  uses,  such 
as  the  care  of  the  butchering  products,  the  making 
of  soft  soap  and  root  beer.  Here  the  churning 
was  done,  by  hand,  with  a  wooden  dasher,  which 
spread  a  circle  of  white  drops,  later  to  become 
grease-spots.  The  floor  of  the  loom-room  was  laid 
in  large  brick  tiles,  more  or  less  loose  in  their 
sockets,  with  an  occasional  earthy  depression  mark 
ing  the  grave  of  a  missing  tile.  Becky's  method 
of  cleaning  was  to  sluice  it  out  and  scrub  it  with 
an  old  broom.  The  seepage  of  generations  before 
her  time  had  thus  added  their  constant  quota  to 
the  old  well's  sum  of  iniquity. 

Mrs.  Bogardus  had  not  visited  this  part  of  the 
old  house  for  many  years.  After  her  father's  death 
she  had  shrunk  from  its  painful  associations.  Later 
she  grew  indifferent ;  but  as  she  passed  now  into 
the  gloomy  place  —  doubly  dark  with  the  deep 
foliage  of  June  on  a  rainy  morning  —  she  was  afraid 
of  her  own  thoughts.  Henceforth  she  was  a  woman 
with  a  diseased  consciousness.  "  What  can't  be 
cured  must  be  seared"  flashed  over  her  as  she  set 
her  face  to  the  stairway. 

These  stairs,  leading  up  into  the  back  attic  or 
"  kitchen  chamber,"  being  somewhat  crowded  for 
space,  advanced  two  steps  into  the  room  below. 
243 


THE   DESERT  AND  THE   SOWN 

As  the  stair  door  opened  outward,  and  the  stairs 
were  exceedingly  steep  and  dark,  every  child  of  the 
house,  in  turn,  had  suffered  a  bad  fall  in  conse 
quence  ;  but  the  arrangement  remained  in  all  its 
natural  depravity,  for  "  children  must  learn." 

Little  Emmy  of  the  old  days  had  loved  to  sit 
upon  these  steps,  a  trifle  raised  above  the  kitchen 
traffic,  yet  cognizant  of  all  that  was  going  on,  and 
ready  to  descend  promptly  if  she  smelled  fresh 
crullers  frying,  or  baked  sweet  apples  steaming  hot 
from  the  oven.  If  Becky's  foot  were  heard  upon 
the  stairs  above,  she  would  jump  quick  enough  ;  but 
if  the  step  had  a  clumping,  boyish  precipitancy, 
she  sat  still  and  laughed,  and  planted  her  back 
against  the  door.  Often  she  had  teased  Adam  in 
this  way,  keeping  him  prisoner  from  his  duties, 
helpless  in  his  good  nature  either  to  scold  her  or 
push  her  off.  But  once  he  circumvented  her,  slip 
ping  off  his  shoes  and  creeping  up  the  stairs  again, 
and  making  his  escape  by  the  roof  and  the  boughs 
of  the  old  maple.  Then  it  was  Emmy  who  was 
teased,  who  sat  a  foolish  half  hour  on  the  stairs 
alone  and  missed  a  beautiful  ride  to  the  wood  lot ; 
but  she  would  not  speak  to  Adam  for  two  days 
afterward. 

Becky's  had  been  the  larger  of  the  two  bedrooms 
244 


INJURIOUS   REPORTS 

in  the  attic,  Adam's  the  smaller  —  tucked  low  under 
the  eaves,  and  entered  by  crawling  around  the  big 
chimney  that  came  bulking  up  to  the  light  like  a 
great  tree  caught  between  house  walls.  The  stairs 
hugged  the  chimney  and  made  use  of  its  support. 
Adam  would  warm  his  hands  upon  it  coming  down 
on  bitter  mornings.  From  force  of  habit,  Emily 
Bogardus  laid  her  smooth  white  hand  upon  the 
clammy  bricks.  No  tombstone  could  be  colder 
than  that  heart  of  house  warmth  now. 

The  roof  of  the  kitchen  chamber  had  been  raised 
a  story  higher,  and  the  chimney  as  it  went  up  con 
tracted  to  quite  a  modern  size.  This  elevation 
gave  room  for  the  incongruous  tower  bedroom  that 
had  hurt  the  symmetry  of  the  old  house,  spoiled 
its  noble  sweep  of  roof,  and  given  rise  to  so  much 
unpleasant  conjecture  as  to  its  use.  It  was  this 
excrescence,  the  record  of  those  last  unloved  and 
unloving  years  of  her  father's  life,  which  Mrs.  Bo 
gardus  would  have  removed,  but  was  prevented  by 
her  son. 

"You  go  back  now,  Cerissa,"  she  said  to  the 
panting  woman  behind  her.  "  I  see  the  key  is  in 
the  lock.  You  may  send  Chauncey  after  a  while  ; 
there  is  no  hurry." 

"  Oh !  "  gasped  Cerissa.     "  Do  you  see  that !  " 
245 


THE  DESEKT  AND  THE  SOWN 

"What?" 

"  I  thought  there  was  something  —  something 
behind  that  slit." 

"  There  is  n't.  Step  this  way.  There,  can't  you 
see  the  light  ?  " 

Mrs.  Bogardus  grasped  Cerissa  by  the  shoulders 
and  held  her  firmly  in  front  of  a  narrow  loophole 
that  pierced  the  partition  close  beside  the  door. 
Light  from  the  room  within  showed  plainly ;  but 
it  gave  an  unpleasantly  human  expression  to  the 
•entrance,  like  a  furtive  eye  on  the  watch. 

"He  would  always  be  there,"  Cerissa  whis 
pered. 

"  Who  ?  " 

"  Your  father.  If  anybody  wanted  to  see  him 
after  he  shut  himself  in  there  for  the  night,  they 
had  to  stand  to  be  questioned  through  that  wall- 
slit  before  he  opened  the  door.  Yes,  ma'am  !  He 
was  on  the  watch  in  there  the  whole  time  like  a 
thing  in  a  trap." 

"  Are  you  afraid  to  go  back  alone  ?  "  Mrs. 
Bogardus  spoke  with  chilling  irony. 

Cerissa  backed  away  in  silence,  her  heart  thump 
ing.  "  She  's  putting  it  on,"  she  said  to  herself. 
"  I  never  see  her  turn  so  pale.  Don't  tell  me 
she  ain't  afraid !  " 

246 


INJURIOUS   REPORTS 

There  was  a  hanging  shelf  against  the  chimney 
on  which  a  bundle  of  dry  herbs  had  been  left  to 
turn  into  dust.  Old  Becky  might  have  put  them 
there  the  autumn  before  she  died ;  or  some  suc 
cessor  of  hers  in  the  years  that  were  blank  to  the 
daughter  of  the  house.  As  she  pushed  open  the 
door  a  sighing  draught  swept  past  her  and  seemed 
to  draw  her  inward.  It  shook  the  sere  bundle. 
Its  skeleton  leaves,  dissolving  into  motes,  flickered 
an  instant  athwart  the  light.  They  sifted  down 
like  ashes  on  the  woman's  dark  head  as  she  passed 
in.  Her  color  had  faded,  but  not  through  fear  of 
ghost  clocks.  It  was  the  searing  process  she  had 
to  face.  And  any  room  where  she  sat  alone  with 
certain  memories  of  her  youth  was  to  her  a  torture 
chamber. 

"  She  's  been  up  there  an  awful  long  time.  I 
would  n't  wonder  if  she  's  fainted  away." 

"  What  would  she  faint  at  ?  I  guess  it 's  pretty 
cold,  though.  Give  me  some  more  tea ;  put  plenty 
of  milk  so  I  can  drink  it  quick." 

Chauncey's  matter  of  fact  tone  always  comforted 

Cerissa  when  she  was  nervous.     She  did  not  mind 

that  he  jeered  or  that  his  words  were  often  rude  ;  no 

man  of  her  acquaintance  could  say  things  nicely  to 

247 


THE   DESERT  AND   THE  SOWN 

women,  or  ever  tried.  A  certain  amount  of  rough 
ness  passed  for  household  wit.  Chauncey  put  the 
screw-driver  in  his  pocket,  his  wife  and  son  watch 
ing  him  with  respectful  anxiety.  He  thought 
rather  well  of  his  own  courage  privately.  But  the 
familiar  details  of  the  loom-room  cheered  him  on 
his  way,  the  homely  tools  of  his  every-day  work 
were  like  friendly  faces  nodding  at  him.  He 
knocked  loudly  on  the  door  above,  and  was  an 
swered  by  Mrs.  Bogardus  in  her  natural  voice. 

"Bosh — every  bit  of  it  bosh!"  he  repeated 
courageously. 

She  was  seated  by  the  window  in  the  chair  with 
the  green  cushions.  Her  face  was  turned  towards 
the  view  outside.  "  What  a  pity  those  cherries  were 
not  picked  before  the  rain,"  she  observed.  "  The 
fruit  is  bursting  ripe ;  I  'm  afraid  you  '11  lose  the 
crop." 

Chauncey  moved  forward  awkwardly  without 
answering. 

"  Stop  there  one  moment,  will  you  ?  "  Mrs. 
Bogardus  rose  and  demonstrated.  "  You  notice 
those  two  boards  are  loose.  Now,  I  put  this  chair 
here,"  —  she  laid  her  hand  on  the  back  to  still  its 
motion.  "  Step  this  way.  You  see  ?  The  chair 
rocks  of  itself.  So  would  any  chair  with  a  spring 
248  ' 


INJURIOUS   REPORTS 

board  under  it.  That  accounts  for  that,  I  think. 
Now  come  over  here."  Chauncey  placed  himself 
as  she  directed  in  front  of  the  high  mantel  with  the 
clock  above  it.  She  stood  at  his  side  and  they  lis 
tened  in  silence  to  that  sound  which  Mary  Horn- 
beck,  deceased,  had  deemed  a  spiritual  warning. 

"  Would  you  call  that  a  '  ticking '  ?  Is  that  like 
any  sound  an  insect  could  make  ?  "  the  mistress 
asked. 

"  I  should  call  it  more  like  a  *  ting,' "  said 
Chauncey.  "  It  comes  kind  o'  muffled  like  through 
the  chimbly  —  a  person  might  be  mistaken  if  they 
was  upset  in  their  nerves  considerable." 

"  What  old  people  call  the  '  death-watch  '  is  sup 
posed  to  be  an  insect  that  lives  in  the  walls  of  old 
houses,  is  n't  it  ?  and  gives  warning  with  a  ticking 
sound  when  somebody  is  going  to  be  called  away  ? 
Now  to  me  that  sounds  like  a  soft  blow  struck  reg 
ularly  on  a  piece  of  hollow  iron  —  say  the  end  of  a 
stove-pipe  sticking  in  the  chimney.  When  I  first 
came  up  here,  there  was  only  a  steady  murmur  of 
wind  and  rain.  Then  the  clouds  thinned  and  the 
sun  came  out  and  drops  began  to  fall  —  distinctly. 
Your  wife  says  the  ticking  was  heard  on  a  day  like 
this,  broken  and  showery.  Now,  if  you  will  un 
screw  that  clock,  I  think  you  will  find  there 's  a 
249 


THE   DESERT   AND   THE   SOWN 

stove-pipe  hole  behind  it ;  and  a  piece  of  pipe 
shoved  into  the  chimney  just  far  enough  to  catch 
the  drops  as  they  gather  and  fall." 

Chauncey  went  to  work.  He  sweated  in  the 
airless  room.  The  powerful  screws  blunted  the 
lips  of  his  tool  but  would  not  start. 

"  I  guess  I  '11  have  to  give  it  up  for  to-day.  The 
screws  are  rusted  in  solid.  Want  I  should  pry  her 
out  of  the  woodwork  ?  " 

"No,  don't  do  that,"  said  Mrs.  Bogardus. 
"  Why  should  we  spoil  the  panel  ?  This  seems  a 
very  comfortable  room.  My  son  is  right.  It  would 
be  foolish  to  tear  it  down.  Such  a  place  as  this 
might  be  very  useful  if  you  people  would  get  over 
your  notions  about  it." 

"  I  never  had  no  notions,"  Chauncey  asserted. 
"  When  the  women  git  talkin'  they  like  to  make 
out  a  good  story,  and  whichever  one  sees  the  most 
and  hears  the  most  makes  the  biggest  sensa 
tion." 

Mrs.  Bogardus  waited  till  he  had  finished  with 
out  appearing  to  have  heard  what  he  was  say 
ing. 

"  Where  is  the  key  to  this  door  ?  "  she  laid  her 
hand  over  a  knob  to  the  right  of  the  stairs. 

"  I  guess  if  there  is  one  it 's  on  the  other  side. 
250 


INJURIOUS   REPORTS 

Yes,  it 's  in  the  key-hole."  Chauncey  turned  the 
knob  and  shoved  and  lifted.  The  door  yielded  to 
his  full  strength,  and  he  allowed  Mrs.  Bogardus  to 
precede  him.  She  stepped  into  a  room  hardly  big 
ger  than  a  closet  with  one  window,  barred  like 
those  in  the  outer  room.  It  was  fitted  up  with 
toilet  conveniences  according  to  the  best  advices  of 
its  day.  Over  all  the  neat  personal  arrangements 
there  was  the  slur  of  neglect,  a  sad  squalor  which 
even  a  king's  palace  wears  with  time. 

Chauncey  tested  the  plumbing  with  a  noise  that 
was  plainly  offensive  to  his  companion,  but  she 
bore  with  it  —  also  with  his  reminiscences  gathered 
from  neighborhood  gossip.  "  He  wa'  n't  fond  of 
spending  money,  but  he  did  n't  spare  it  here  :  this 
was  his  ship  cabin  when  he  started  on  his  last  voy 
age.  It  looked  funny  —  a  man  with  all  his  land 
and  houses  cooped  up  in  a  place  like  this ;  but  he 
wanted  to  be  independent  of  the  women.  He  hated 
to  have  'em  fussin'  around  him.  He  had  a  woman 
to  come  and  cook  up  stuff  for  him  to  help  himself 
to  ;  but  she  wouldn't  stay  here  overnight,  nor  he 
would  n't  let  her.  As  for  a  man  in  the  house, — 
most  men  were  thieves,  he  thought,  or  waiting  their 
chance  to  be.  It  was  real  pitiful  the  way  he  made 
his  end." 

251 


THE   DESERT   AND   THE   SOWN 

"  Open  that  window  and  shut  the  door  when  you 
come  out,"  said  Mrs.  Bogardus.  "  I  will  send 
some  one  to  help  you  down  with  that  secretary. 
Cerissa  knows  about  it.  It  is  to  be  sent  up  on  the 
Hill." 


252 


XXII 

THE  CASE  STRIKES  IN 

CHRISTINE'S  marriage  took  place  while 
V^  Paul  and  Moya  were  lingering  in  the  Bru- 
neau,  for  Paul's  health  ostensibly.  Banks  and 
Horace  had  been  left  to  the  smiling  irony  of  jus 
tice.  They  never  had  a  straight  chance  to  define 
their  conduct  in  the  woods  ;  for  no  one  accused 
them.  No  awkward  questions  were  asked  in  the 
city  drawing-rooms  or  at  the  clubs.  For  a  tough 
half  hour  or  so  at  Fort  Lemhi  they  had  realized 
how  they  stood  in  the  eyes  of  those  unbiased  mili 
tary  judges.  The  shock  had  a  bracing  effect  for 
a  time.  Both  boys  were  said  to  be  much  improved 
by  their  Western  trip  and  by  the  hardships  of  that 
frightful  homeward  march. 

Mrs.  Bogardus  had  matched  her  gift  of  Stone 
Ridge  to  her  son,  which  was  a  gift  of  sentiment, 
with  one  of  more  substantial  value  to  her  daugh 
ter,  —  the  income  from  certain  securities  settled 
upon  her  and  her  heirs.  Banks  was  carefully 
253 


THE   DESERT  AND  THE   SOWN 

unprovided  for.  The  big  house  in  town  was  full  of 
ghosts  —  the  ghosts  that  haunt  such  homes,  made 
desolate  by  a  breach  of  hearts.  The  city  itself  was 
crowded  with  opportunities  for  giving  and  receiv 
ing  pain  between  mother  and  daughter.  Christine 
had  developed  all  the  latent  hardness  of  her  mo 
ther's  race  with  a  sickly  frivolity  of  her  own.  She 
made  a  great  show  of  faith  in  her  marriage  ven 
ture.  She  boomed  it  in  her  occasional  letters, 
which  were  full  of  scarce  concealed  bravado  as 
graceful  as  snapping  her  fingers  in  her  mother's 
face. 

Mrs.  Bogardus  leased  her  house  in  town,  and 
retired  before  the  ghosts,  but  not  escaping  them ; 
Stone  Ridge  must  be  put  in  order  for  its  new 
master  and  mistress,  and  Stone  Ridge  had  its  own 
ghosts.  She  informed  her  absentees  that,  before 
their  return,  she  should  have  left  for  Southern 
California  to  look  after  some  investments  which  she 
had  neglected  there  of  late.  It  was  then  she  spoke 
of  her  plan  for  restoring  the  old  house  by  pulling 
down  that  addition  which  disfigured  it ;  and  Paul 
had  objected  to  this  erasure.  It  would  take  from 
the  house's  veracity,  he  said.  The  words  carried 
their  unintentional  sting. 

But  it  was  Moya's  six  lines  at  the  bottom  of  his 
254 


THE  CASE   STRIKES   IN 

page  that  changed  and  softened  everything.  Moya 
—  always  blessed  when  she  took  the  initiative  — 
contrived,  as  swiftly  as  she  could  set  them  down, 
to  say  the  very  words  that  made  the  home-coming 
a  coming  home  indeed. 

"  Will  Madam  Bogardus  be  pleased  to  keep  her 
place  as  the  head  of  her  son's  house?"  she  wrote. 
"  This  foolish  person  he  has  married  wants  to  be 
anything  rather  than  the  mistress  of  Stone  Ridge. 
She  wants  to  be  always  out  of  doors,  and  she  needs 
to  be.  Oh,  must  you  go  away  now  —  now  when 
we  need  you  so  much?  It  cannot  be  said  here 
on  paper  how  much  /  need  you  !  Am  I  not  your 
motherless  daughter  ?  Please  be  there  when  we 
come,  and  please  stay  there  !  " 

"  For  a  little  while  then,"  said  the  lonely  wo 
man,  smiling  at  the  image  of  that  sweet,  foolish 
person  in  her  thoughts.  "  For  a  little  while,  till 
she  learns  her  mistake."  Such  mistakes  are  the 
cornerstone  of  family  friendship. 

It  was  an  uneventful  summer  on  the  Hill,  but 
one  of  rather  wearing  intensity  in  the  inner  rela 
tions  of  the  household,  one  with  another ;  for 
nothing  coidd  be  quite  natural  with  a  pit  of  con 
cealment  to  be  avoided  by  all,  and  an  air  of  uncon- 
255 


THE  DESERT  AND  THE   SOWN 

sciousness  to  be  carefully  preserved  in  avoiding  it. 
Moya's  success  in  this  way  was  so  remarkable  that 
Paul  half  hated  it.  How  was  it  possible  for  her 
to  speak  to  his  mother  so  lightly  ;  never  the  least 
apparent  premeditation  or  fear  of  tripping ;  how 
look  at  her  with  such  sweet  surface  looks  that  never 
questioned  or  saw  beneath?  He  could  not  meet 
his  mother's  eyes  at  all  when  they  were  alone 
together,  or  endure  a  silence  in  her  company. 

Both  women  were  of  the  type  called  elemen 
tal.  They  understood  each  other  without  knowing 
why.  Moya  felt  the  desperate  truth  contained  in 
the  mother's  falsehood,  and  broke  forth  into  pas 
sionate  defense  of  her  as  against  her  husband's 
silence. 

He  answered  her  one  day  by  looking  up  a  little 
green  book  of  fairy  tales  and  reading  aloud  this 
fragment  of  "  The  Golden  Key." 

"  '  I  never  tell  lies,  even  in  fun.'  (The  mys 
terious  Grandmother  speaks.) 

"  '  How  good  of  you ! '  (says  the  Child  in  the 
Wood.) 

"  '  I  could  n't  if  I  tried.  It  would  come  true  if 
I  said  it,  and  then  I  should  be  punished  enough.'  ' 

Moya's  eyes  narrowed  reflectively. 

"  How  constantly  you  are  thinking  of  this  !  I 
256 


THE   CASE   STRIKES   IN 

think  of  it  only  when  I  am  with  you.  As  if  a 
woman  like  your  mother,  who  has  done  one  thing, 
should  be  all  that  thing,  and  nothing  more  to  us, 
her  children  !  " 

Moya  was  giving  herself  up,  almost  immorally, 
Paul  sometimes  thought,  to  the  fascination  Mrs. 
Bogardus's  personality  had  for  her.  In  a  keenly 
susceptible  state  herself,  at  that  time,  there  was 
something  calming  and  strengthening  in  the  older 
woman's  perfected  beauty,  her  physical  poise,  and 
the  fitness  of  everything  she  did  and  said  and  wore 
to  the  given  occasion.  As  a  dark  woman  she  was 
particularly  striking  in  summer  clothing.  Her 
white  effects  were  tremendous.  She  did  not  pre 
tend  to  study  these  matters  herself,  but  in  years 
of  experience,  with  money  to  spend,  she  had 
learned  well  in  whom  to  confide.  When  women 
are  shut  up  together  in  country  houses  for  the 
summer,  they  can  irritate  each  other  in  the  most 
foolish  ways.  Mrs.  Bogardus  never  got  upon  your 
nerves. 

But,  for  Paul,  there  was  a  poison  in  his  mother's 
beauty,  a  dread  in  her  influence  over  his  impres 
sionable  young  wife,  thrilled  with  the  awakening 
forces  of  her  consonant  being.  Moya  would  drink 
deep  of  every  cup  that  life  presented.  Mother- 
257 


THE  DESERT  AND   THE   SOWN 

hood  was  her  lesson  for  the  day.  "  She  is  a  queen 
of  mothers !  "  she  would  exclaim  with  an  aban 
don  that  was  painful  to  Paul ;  he  saw  deformity 
where  Moya  was  ready  to  kneel.  "  I  love  her 
perfect  love  for  you  —  for  me,  even  !  She  is 
above  all  jealousy.  She  does  n't  even  ask  to  be 
understood." 

Paul  was  silent. 

"  And  oh,  she  knows,  she  knows  !  She  has  been 
through  it  all  —  in  such  despair  and  misery  —  all 
that  is  before  me,  with  everything  in  the  world  to 
make  it  easy  and  all  the  beautiful  care  she  gives 
me.  She  is  the  supreme  mother.  And  I  never 
had  a  mother  to  speak  to  before.  Don't,  don't, 
please,  keep  putting  that  dreadful  thing  between 
us  now ! " 

So  Paul  took  the  dreadful  thing  away  with  him 
and  was  alone  with  it,  and  knew  that  his  mother 
saw  it  in  his  eyes  when  their  eyes  met  and  avoided. 
When,  after  a  brief  household  absence,  he  would 
see  her  again  he  wondered,  "  Has  she  been  alone 
with  it  ?  Has  it  passed  into  another  phase  ? " 
—  as  of  an  incurable  disease  that  must  take  its 
time  and  course. 

Mrs.  Bogardus  did  not  spare  her  conscience  in 
social  ways  all  this  time.  It  was  a  part  of  her 
258 


THE   CASE   STRIKES   IN 

life  to  remember  that  she  had  neighbors  —  certain 
neighbors.  She  included  Paul  without  particularly 
consulting  him  whenever  it  was  proper  for  him  to 
support  her  in  her  introduction  of  his  wife  to  the 
country-house  folk,  many  of  whom  they  knew  in 
town". 

All  his  mother's  friends  liked  Paul  and  supposed 
him  to  be  very  clever,  but  they  had  never  taken 
him  seriously.  "  Now,  at  last,"  they  said,  "  he  has 
done  something  like  other  people.  He  is  coming 
out."  Experienced  matrons  were  pleased  to  flatter 
him  on  his  choice  of  a  bride.  The  daughters  stud 
ied  Moya,  and  decided  that  she  was  "different," 
but  "  all  right."  She  had  a  careless  distinction  of 
her  own.  Some  of  her  "  things  "  were  surprisingly 
lovely  —  probably  heirlooms  ;  and  army  women  are 
so  clever  about  clothes. 

Would  they  spend  the  winter  in  town  ? 

Paul  replied  absently :  they  had  not  decided. 
Probably  they  would  not  go  down  till  after  the 
holidays. 

What  an  attractive  plan  ?  What  an  ideal  fam 
ily  Christmas  they  would  have  all  together  in  the 
country !  Christine  had  not  been  up  all  summer, 
had  she  ?  Here  Moya  came  to  her  husband's 
relief,  through  a  wife's  dual  consciousness  in  com- 
259 


THE  DESERT  AND  THE   SOWN 

pany,  and  covered  his  want  of  spirits  with  a  flood 
of  foolish  chatter. 

The  smiling  way  in  which  women  the  most  sin 
cere  can  posture  and  prance  on  the  brink  of  dis 
simulation  was  particularly  sickening  to  Paul  at 
this  time.  Why  need  they  put  themselves  in  situ 
ations  where  it  was  required  ?  The  situations  were 
of  his  mother's  creation.  He  imagined  she  must 
suffer,  but  had  little  sympathy  with  that  side  of 
her  martyrdom.  Moya  seemed  a  trifle  feverish  in 
her  acceptance  of  these  affairs  of  which  she  was 
naturally  the  life  and  centre.  A  day  of  entertain 
ing  often  faded  into  an  evening  of  subtle  sadness. 

Paul  would  take  her  out  into  the  moonlight  of 
that  deep  inland  country.  The  trees  were  dark 
with  leaves  and  brooded  close  above  them ;  old 
water-fences  and  milldams  cast  inky  shadows  on 
the  still,  shallow  ponds  clasped  in  wooded  hills. 
No  region  could  have  offered  a  more  striking  con 
trast  to  the  empty  plains.  Moya  felt  shut  in  with 
old  histories.  The  very  ground  was  but  moulding 
sand  in  which  generations  of  human  lives  had  been 
poured,  and  the  sand  swept  over  to  be  reshaped 
for  them. 

"We  are  not  living  our  own  life  yet,"  Paul 
would  say  ;  not  adding,  "  We  are  protecting  her." 
260 


THE   CASE   STRIKES   IN 

Here  was  the  beginning  of  punishment  helplessly 
meted  out  to  this  proud  woman  whose  sole  desire 
was  towards  her  children  —  to  give,  and  not  to 
receive. 

"  But  this  is  our  Garden  ?  "  Moya  would  muse. 
"  We  are  as  nearly  two  alone  as  any  two  could 
be." 

"  If  you  include  the  Snake.  We  can't  leave  out 
the  Snake,  you  know." 

"  Snake  or  Seraph  —  I  don't  believe  I  know 
the  difference.  Paul,  I  cannot  have  you  thinking 
things." 

"  I  ?  —  what  do  I  think  ?  " 

"  You  are  thinking  it  is  bad  for  me  to  be  so 
much  with  her.  You,  as  a  man  and  a  husband, 
resent  what  she,  as  a  woman  and  a  wife,  has  dared 
to  do.  And  I,  as  another  woman  and  wife,  I  say 
she  could  do  nothing  else  and  be  true.  For,  don't 
you  see  ?  She  never  loved  him.  The  wifehood  in 
her  has  never  been  reached.  She  was  a  girl,  then 
a  mother,  then  a  widow.  How  could  she  "  — 

"  Do  you  think  he  would  have  claimed  her  as 
his  wife  ?  Oh,  you  do  not  know  him  ;  —  she  has 
never  known  him.  If  we  could  be  brave  and  face 
our  duty  to  the  whole  truth,  and  leave  the  rest  to 
those  sequences,  never  dreamed  of,  that  wait  upon 
261 


THE   DESERT  AND  THE   SOWN 

great  acts.  Such  surprises  come  straight  from 
God.  Now  we  can  never  know  how  he  would  have 
risen  to  meet  a  nobler  choice  in  her.  He  had  not 
far  to  rise  !  Well,  we  have  our  share  of  blessings, 
including  piazza  teas ;  but  as  a  family  we  have 
missed  one  of  the  greatest  spiritual  opportunities, 
—  such  as  come  but  once  in  a  lifetime." 

"  Ah,  if  she  was  not  ready  for  it,  it  was  not 
her  opportunity.  God  is  very  patient  with  us,  I 
believe." 


262 


XXIII 

RESTIVENESS 

MOTHERS  and  sons  are  rarely  very  personal 
in  their  intimacy  after  the  son  has  taken  to 
himself  a  wife.  Apart  from  certain  moments  not 
appropriate  to  piazza  teas,  Paul  and  his  mother 
were  perhaps  as  comfortable  together  as  the  rela 
tion  averages.  It  was  much  that  they  never  talked 
emotionally.  Private  judgments  which  we  have 
refrained  from  putting  into  words  may  die  unfruit 
ful  and  many  a  bitter  crop  be  spared. 

"  This  is  Paul's  apology  for  being  happy  in 
spite  of  himself — and  of  us!"  Moya  teased,  as 
she  admired  the  beautifully  drawn  plans  for  the 
quarrymen's  club-house. 

"  It  does  n't  need  any  apology  ;  it's  a  very  good 
thing,"  said  Mrs.  Bogardus,  ignoring  double  mean 
ings.  No  caps  that  were  flying  around  ever  fitted 
her  head.  Paul's  dreams  and  his  mother's  practical 
experience  had  met  once  more  on  a  common  ground 
of  philanthropy.  This  time  it  was  a  workingmen's 
263 


club  in  which  the  interests  of  social  and  mental 
improvement  were  conjoined  with  facilities  for  out 
door  sport.  Up  to  date  philanthropy  is  an  expen 
sive  toy.  Paul,  though  now  a  landowner,  was  far 
from  rich  in  his  own  right.  His  mother  financed 
this  as  she  had  many  another  scheme  for  him.  She 
was  more  openhanded  than  heretofore,  but  all  was 
done  with  that  ennuyed  air  which  she  ever  wore  as 
of  an  older  child  who  has  outgrown  the  game.  It 
was  in  Moya  and  Moya's  prospective  maternity  that 
her  pride  reinstated  itself.  Her  own  history  and 
generation  she  trod  underfoot.  Mistakes,  humilia 
tions,  whichever  way  she  turned.  Paul  had  never 
satisfied  her  entirely  in  anything  he  did  until  he 
chose  this  girl  for  the  mother  of  his  children. 
Now  their  house  might  come  to  something.  Moya 
moved  before  her  eyes  crowned  in  the  light  of  the 
future.  And  that  this  noble  and  innocent  girl, 
with  her  perfect  intuitions,  should  turn  to  her  now 
with  such  impetuous  affection  was  perhaps  the 
sweetest  pain  the  blighted  woman  had  ever  known. 
She  lay  awake  many  a  night  thinking  mute  bless 
ings  on  the  mother  and  the  child  to  be.  Yet  she 
resisted  that  generous  initiative  so  dear  to  herself, 
aware  with  a  subtle  agony  of  the  pain  it  gave  her 
son. 

264 


RESTIVENESS 

One  day  she  said  to  Paul  (they  were  driving 
home  together  through  a  bit  of  woodland,  the 
horses  stepping  softly  on  the  mould  of  fallen  leaves) 
—  "  I  don't  expect  you  to  account  for  every  dol 
lar  of  mine  you  spend  in  helping  those  who  can  be 
helped  that  way.  You  have  a  free  hand." 

"  I  understand,"  said  Paul.  "  I  have  used  your 
money  freely  —  for  a  purpose  that  I  never  have 
accounted  for." 

"  Don't  you  need  more  ?  " 

"  No  ;  there  is  no  need  now." 

"  Why  is  there  not  ?  " 

Paul  was  silent.  "  I  cannot  go  into  particulars. 
It  is  a  long  story." 

"  Does  the  purpose  still  exist  ? "  his  mother 
asked  sharply. 

"  It  does ;  but  not  as  a  claim  —  for  that  sort 
of  help." 

"  Let  me  know  if  such  a  claim  shoidd  ever  re 
turn." 

"  I  will,  mother,"  said  Paul. 

There  came  a  day  when  mother  and  son  reaped 

the  reward  of   their  mutual  forbearance.     There 

was  a  night  and  a  day  when  Paul  became  a  boy 

again  in  his  mother's  hands,  and  she  took  the  place 

265 


THE   DESERT   AND   THE   SOWN 

that  was  hers  in  Nature.  She  was  the  priestess 
acquainted  with  mysteries.  He  followed  her,  and 
hung  upon  her  words.  The  expression  of  her  face 
meant  life  and  death  to  him.  The  dreadful  con 
sciousness  passed  out  of  his  eyes ;  tears  washed  it 
out  as  he  rose  from  his  knees  by  Moya's  bed,  and 
his  mother  kissed  him,  and  laid  his  son  in  his 
arms. 

The  following  summer  saw  the  club-house  and 
all  its  affiliations  in  working  order.  The  benefi 
ciaries  took  to  it  most  kindly,  but  were  disposed  to 
manage  it  in  their  own  way :  not  in  all  respects 
the  way  of  the  founder's  intention. 

"  To  make  a  gift  complete,  you  must  keep  your 
self  out  of  it,"  Mrs.  Bogardus  advised.  "  You 
have  done  your  part ;  now  let  them  have  it  and 
run  it  themselves." 

Paul  was  not  hungry  for  leadership,  but  he  had 
hoped  that  his  interest  in  the  men's  amusements 
would  bring  him  closer  to  them  and  equalize  the 
difference  between  the  Hill  and  the  quarry. 

"  You  have  never  worked  with  them ;  how  can 
you  expect  to  play  with  them?"  was  another  of 
his  mother's  cool  aphorisms.  Alas !  Paul,  the 
son  of  the  poor  man,  had  no  work,  and  hence  no 

play. 

266 


RESTIVENESS 

It  was  time  to  be  making  winter  plans  again. 
Mrs.  Bogardus  knew  that  her  son's  young  family 
was  now  complete  without  her  presence.  Moya 
had  gained  confidence  in  the  care  of  her  child  ;  she 
no  longer  brought  every  new  symptom  to  the  grand 
mother.  Yet  Mrs.  Bogardus  put  off  discussing 
the  change,  dreading  to  expose  her  own  isolation, 
a  point  on  which  she  was  as  sensitive  as  if  it 
were  a  crime.  Paul  was  never  entirely  frank  with 
her :  she  knew  he  would  not  be  frank  in  this. 
They  never  expressed  their  wills  or  their  won'ts 
to  each  other  with  the  careless  rudeness  of  a  sound 
family  faith,  and  always  she  felt  the  burden  of  his 
unrelenting  pity.  She  began  to  take  long  drives 
alone,  coming  in  late  and  excusing  herself  for  din 
ner.  At  such  times  she  would  send  for  her  grand 
son  in  his  nurse's  arms  to  bid  him  good-night. 
The  mother  would  put  off  her  own  good-night,  not 
to  intrude  at  these  sessions.  One  evening,  going 
up  later  to  kiss  her  little  son,  she  found  his  crib 
empty,  the  nurse  gone  to  her  dinner.  He  was  fast 
asleep  in  his  grandmother's  arms,  where  she  had 
held  him  for  an  hour  in  front  of  the  open  fire  in 
her  bedroom.  She  looked  up  guiltily.  "  He  was 
so  comfortable !  And  his  crib  is  cold.  Will  he 
take  cold  when  Ellen  puts  him  back  ?  " 
267 


THE   DESERT  AND   THE   SOWN 

"  I  am  sure  he  won't,"  Moya  whispered,  gather 
ing  up  the  rosy  sleeper.  But  she  was  disturbed 
by  the  breach  of  bedtime  rules. 

In  the  drawing-room  a  few  nights  later  she  said 
energetically  to  Paul. 

"  One  might  as  well  be  dead  as  to  live  with  a 
grudge." 

"  A  good  grudge  ?  " 

"  There  are  no  good  grudges." 

"  There  are  some  honest  ones  —  honestly  come 

V 

"  I  don't  care  how  they  are  come  by.  Grudges 
'  is  p'ison.'  "  She  laughed,  but  her  cheeks  were 
hot. 

"  Do  you  know  that  Christine  has  been  at 
death's  door  ?  Your  mother  heard  of  it  —  through 
Mrs.  Bowen  !  Was  that  why  you  did  n't  show  me 
her  letter  ?  " 

"  It  was  not  in  my  letter  from  Mrs.  Bowen." 

"I  think  she  has  known  it  some  time,"  said 
Moya,  "  and  kept  it  to  herself." 

"  Mrs.  Bowen  !  " 

"  Your  mother.     Is  n't  it  terrible  ?     Think  how 

Chrissy  must  have  needed  her.     They  need  each 

other  so !     Christine  was  her    constant   thought. 

How  can  all  that  change  in  one  year!     But  she 

268 


RESTIVENESS 

cannot  go  to  Banks  Bowen's  house  without  an 
invitation.  We  must  go  to  New  York  and  make 
her  come  with  us" — we  must  open  the  way." 

"  Yes,"  said  Paul,  "  I  have  seen  it  was  coming. 
In  the  end  we  always  do  the  thing  we  have  for 
sworn." 

"  /  was  the  one.  I  take  it  back.  Your  work  is 
there.  I  know  it  calls  you.  Was  not  Mrs.  Bowen's 
letter  an  appeal  ?  " 

Paul  was  silent. 

"  She  must  think  you  a  deserter.  And  there  is 
bigger  work  for  you,  too  !  Here  is  a  great  politi 
cal  fight  on,  and  my  husband  is  not  in  it.  Every 
man  must  slay  his  dragon.  There  is  a  whole  city 
of  dragons  !  " 

"  Yes,"  smiled  Paul ;  "  I  see.  You  want  me 
to  put  my  legs  under  the  same  cloth  with  Banks 
and  ask  him  about  his  golf  score." 

"  If  you  want  to  fight  him,  have  it  out  on  public 
grounds  ;  fight  him  in  politics." 

"  We  are  on  the  same  side !  " 

Moya  laughed,  but  she  looked  a  little  dashed. 

"  Banks  comes  of  gentlemen.  He  inherited  his 
opinions,"  said  Paul. 

"  He  may  have  inherited  a  few  other  things,  if 
we  could  have  patience  with  him." 
269 


THE  DESERT  AND  THE   SOWN 

"  Are  you  sorry  for  Banks  ?  " 

"  I  shall  be  sorry  for  him  —  when  he  meets  you. 
He  has  been  spared  that  too  long." 

"  Dispenser  of  destinies,  I  bow  as  I  always 
do!" 

"  You  will  speak  to  your  mother  at  once  ?  " 

« I  will." 

"  And  do  it  beautifully  ?  " 

"  As  well  as  I  know  how." 

"  Ah,  you  have  had  such  practice  !  How  good 
it  would  be  if  we  could  only  dare  to  quarrel  in 
this  family !  You  and  I  —  of  course  !  " 

"  We  quarrel,  of  course !  "  laughed  Paul. 

"  I  love  to  quarrel  with  you  !  " 

"  You  do  it  beautifully.  You  have  had  such 
practice !  " 

"  I  am  so  happy  !  It  is  clear  to  me  now  that 
we  shall  live  down  this  misery.  Christine  will 
love  to  see  me  again  ;  I  know  she  will.  A  wife  is 
a  very  different  thing  from  a  girl  —  a  haughty 
girl!" 

"  I  should  think  the  wife  of  Banks  Bowen  might 
be." 

"  And  we  '11  part  with  our  ancient  and  honor 
able  grudge !  We  are  getting  too  big  for  it.  We 
are  parents !  " 

270 


RESTIVENESS 

Paul  made  the  proposition  to  his  mother  and  she 
agreed  to  it  in  every  particular  save  the  one.  She 
would  remain  at  Stone  Ridge.  It  was  impossible 
to  move  her.  Moya  was  in  despair.  She  had  culti 
vated  an  overweening  conscience  in  her  relations 
with  Mrs.  Bogardus.  It  turned  upon  her  now  and 
showed  her  the  true  state  of  her  own  mind  at  the 
thought  of  being  Two  once  more  and  alone  with  the 
child  God  had  given  them.  Mrs.  Bogardus  ap 
peared  to  see  nothing  but  her  own  interests  in  the 
matter.  She  had  made  up  her  mind.  And  in 
spite  of  the  conscientious  scruples  on  all  sides,  the 
hedging  and  pleading  and  explaining,  all  were 
happier  in  the  end  for  her  decision.  She  herself 
was  softened  by  it,  and  she  yielded  one  point  in 
return.  Paul  had  steadily  opposed  his  mother's 
plan  of  housekeeping,  alone  with  one  maid  and  a 
man  who  slept  at  the  stables.  The  Dunlops,  as 
it  happened,  were  childless  for  the  winter,  young 
Chauncey  attending  a  "  commercial  college  "  in  a 
neighboring  town.  After  many  interviews  and  a 
good  deal  of  self-importance  on  Cerissa's  part,  the 
pair  were  persuaded  to  close  the  old  house  and 
occupy  the  servants'  wing  on  the  Hill,  as  a  distinct 
family,  yet  at  hand  in  case  of  need.  It  was  late 
autumn  before  all  these  arrangements  could  be 
271 


THE  DESERT  AND  THE   SOWN 

made.  Paul  and  Moya,  leaving  the  young  scion 
aged  nineteen  months  in  the  care  of  his  nurse  and 
his  grandmother,  went  down  the  river  to  open  the 
New  York  house. 


272 


XXIV 

INDIAN  SUMMER 

upper  fields  of  Stone  Ridge,  so  the  farm- 
J_  ers  said,  were  infested  that  autumn  by  a  shy 
and  solitary  vagrant,  who  never  could  be  met  with 
face  to  face,  but  numbers  of  times  had  been  seen 
across  the  width  of  a  lot,  climbing  the  bars,  or 
closing  a  gate,  or  vanishing  up  some  crooked  lane 
that  quickly  shut  him  from  view. 

"  I  would  look  after  that  old  chap  if  I  was  you, 
Chauncey.  He  '11  be  smoking  in  your  hay  barns, 
and  burn  you  out  some  o'  these  cold  nights." 

Chauncey  took  these  neighborly  warnings  with 
good-humored  indifference.  "  I  have  n't  seen  no 
signs  of  his  doin'  any  harm,"  he  said.  "  Anybody  's 
at  liberty  to  walk  in  the  fields  if  there  ain't  a  '  No 
Trespass '  posted.  I  rather  guess  he  makes  his 
bed  among  the  corn  stouks.  I  see  prints  of  some 
one's  feet,  goin'  and  cominV 

Mrs.  Bogardus  was  more  herself  in  those  days 
than  she  had  been  at  any  time  since  the  great  North- 
273 


THE  DESERT  AND  THE   SOWN 

western  wilderness  sent  her  its  second  message  of 
fear.  Old  memories  were  losing  their  sting.  She 
could  bear  to  review  her  decision  with  a  certain 
shrinking  hardihood.  Had  the  choice  been  given 
her  to  repeat,  her  action  had  been  the  same.  In 
so  far  as  she  had  perjured  herself  for  the  sake  of 
peace  in  the  family,  she  owned  the  sacrifice  was 
vain ;  but  her  own  personality  was  the  true  reason 
for  what  she  had  done.  She  was  free  in  her  un 
impeachable  widowhood  —  a  mother  who  had  never 
been  at  heart  a  wife.  She  feared  no  ghosts  this 
keen  autumn  weather,  at  the  summit  of  her  con 
scious  powers.  Her  dark  eye  unsheathed  its  glance 
of  authority.  It  was  an  eye  that  went  everywhere, 
and  everywhere  was  met  with  signs  that  praised  its 
oversight.  Here  was  an  out-worn  inheritance  which 
one  woman,  in  less  than  a  third  of  her  lifetime,  had 
developed  into  a  competence  for  her  son.  He 
could  afford  to  dream  dreams  of  beneficence  with 
his  mother  to  make  them  good.  Yes,  he  needed 
her  still.  His  child  was  in  her  keeping ;  and, 
though  brief  the  lease,  that  trust  was  no  accident. 
It  was  the  surest  proof  he  could  have  given  her  of 
his  vital  allegiance.  In  the  step  which  Paul  and 
Moya  were  taking,  she  saw  the  first  promise  of  that 
wisdom  she  had  despaired  of  in  her  son.  In  the 
274 


INDIAN   SUMMER 

course  of  years  he  would  understand  her.  And 
Christine  ?  She  rested  bitterly  secure  in  her  daugh 
ter's  inevitable  physical  need  of  her.  Christine 
was  a  born  parasite.  She  had  no  true  pride  ;  she 
was  capable  merely  of  pique  which  would  wear 
itself  out  and  pass  into  other  forms  of  selfishness. 

This  woman  had  been  governed  all  her  life  by 
a  habit  of  decision,  and  a  strong  personality  rooted 
in  the  powers  of  nature.  Therefore  she  was  sel 
dom  mistaken  in  her  conclusions  when  they  dealt 
with  material  results.  Occasionally  she  left  out  the 
spirit ;  but  the  spirit  leaves  out  no  one. 

Her  long  dark  skirts  were  sweeping  the  autumn 
grass  at  sunset  as  she  paced  back  and  forth  under 
the  red-gold  tents  of  the  maples.  It  was  a  row  of 
young  trees  she  had  planted  to  grace  a  certain  turf 
walk  at  the  top  of  the  low  wall  that  divided,  by 
a  drop  of  a  few  feet,  the  west  lawn  at  Stone  Ridge 
from  the  meadow  where  the  beautiful  Alderneys 
were  pastured.  The  maples  turned  purple  as  the 
light  faded  out  of  their  tops  and  struck  flat  across 
the  meadow,  making  the  grass  vivid  as  in  spring. 
Two  spots  of  color  moved  across  it  slowly  —  a 
young  woman  capped  and  aproned,  urging  along  a 
little  trotting  child.  Down  the  path  of  their  united 
shadows  they  came,  and  the  shadows  had  reached 
275 


THE   DESERT  AND  THE   SOWN 

already  the  dividing  wall.  The  waiting  smile  was 
sweet  upon  the  grandmother's  features ;  her  face 
was  transformed  like  the  meadow  into  a  memory  of 
spring.  The  child  saw  her,  and  waved  to  her  with 
something  scarlet  which  he  held  in  his  free  hand. 
She  admired  the  stride  of  his  brown  legs  above 
their  crumpled  socks,  the  imperishable  look  of  health 
on  his  broad,  sweet  glowing  face.  She  lifted  him 
high  in  her  embrace  and  bore  him  up  the  hill,  his 
dusty  shoes  dangling  against  her  silk  front  breadths, 
his  knees  pressed  tight  against  her  waist,  and  over 
her  shoulder  he  flourished  the  scarlet  cardinal 
flower. 

"  Where  have  you  been  with  him  so  long  ?  "  she 
asked  the  nursemaid. 

"  Only  up  in  the  lane,  as  far  as  the  three  gates, 
ma'am." 

"  Then  where  did  he  get  this  flower  ?  " 

"  Oh,"  said  the  pretty  Irish  girl,  half  scared  by 
her  tone,  and  tempted  to  prevaricate.  "  Why 
—  he  must  have  picked  it,  I  guess." 

"  Not  in  the  lane.  It 's  a  swamp-flower.  It 
does  n't  grow  anywhere  within  four  miles  of  the 
lane  !  " 

"  It  must  have  been  the  old  man  gev  it  him 
then,"  said  the  maid.  "  Is  it  unhealthy,  ma'am  ? 
276 


INDIAN  SUMMER 

I  tried  to  get  it  from  him,  but  he  screamed  and 
fussed  so." 

"  What  old  man  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Why,  him  that  was  passin'  up  the  lane.  I 
did  n't  see  him  till  he  was  clean  by  —  and  Middy 
had  the  flower.  I  don't  know  where  in  the  world 
he  could  have  got  it,  else,  for  we  was  n't  one  step 
out  of  the  lane,  was  we,  Middy  !  That 's  the  very 
truth." 

"  But  where  were  you  when  strangers  were  giv 
ing  him  flowers  ?  " 

"  Why,  sure,  ma'am,  I  was  only  just  a  step  away 
be  the  fence,  having  a  word  with  one  o'  the  boys. 
I  was  lookin'  in  the  field,  speakin'  to  him  and  he 
was  lookin'  at  me  with  me  back  to  the  lane. 
4  There  's  the  old  man  again,'  he  says,  shiftin'  his 
eye.  I  turned  me  round  and  there,  so  he  was,  but 
he  was  by  and  walkin'  on  up  the  lane.  And  Middy 
had  the  flower.  He  wouldn't  be  parted  from  it 
and  squeezed  it  so  tight  I  thought  the  juice  might 
be  bad  on  his  hands,  and  he  promised  he  'd  not  put 
it  to  his  mouth.  I  kep'  my  eye  on  him.  Ah,  the 
nasty,  na-asty  flower !  Give  it  here  to  Katy  till 
I  throw  it ! " 

44  There  's  no  harm  in  the  flower.  But  there  is 
harm  in  strangers  making  up  to  him  when  your 
277 


THE   DESERT   AND  THE   SOWN 

back  is  turned.  Don't  you  know  the  dreadful 
things  we  read  in  the  papers  ?  " 

Mrs.  Bogardus  said  no  more.  It  was  Middy's 
supper-time.  But  later  she  questioned  Katy  par 
ticularly  concerning  this  old  man  who  was  spoken 
of  quite  as  if  his  appearance  were  taken  for  granted 
in  the  heart  of  the  farm.  Katy  recalled  one  other 
day  when  she  had  seen  him  asleep  as  she  thought 
in  a  corner  of  the  fence  by  the  big  chestnut  tree 
when  she  and  the  boy  were  nutting.  They  had 
moved  away  to  the  other  side  of  the  tree,  but  while 
she  was  busy  hunting  for  nuts  Middy  had  strayed 
off  a  bit  and  foregathered  with  the  old  man,  who 
was  not  asleep  at  all,  but  stood  with  his  back  to 
her  pouring  a  handful  of  big  fat  chestnuts  into  the 
child's  little  skirt,  which  he  held  up.  She  called 
to  him  and  the  old  man  had  stepped  back,  and  the 
nuts  were  spilled.  Middy  had  cried  and  made  her 
pick  them  up,  and  when  that  was  done  the  stranger 
was  gone  quite  out  of  sight. 

Chauncey,  too,  was  questioned,  and  testified  that 
the  old  man  of  the  fields  was  no  myth.  But  he 
deprecated  all  this  exaggerated  alarm.  The  stranger 
was  some  simple-minded  old  work-house  candidate 
putting  off  the  evil  day.  In  a  few  weeks  he  would 
have  to  make  for  shelter  in  one  of  the  neighboring 
278 


INDIAN   SUMMER 

towns.  Chauncey  could  not  see  what  legal  hold 
they  had  upon  him  even  if  they  could  catch  him. 
He  hardly  came  under  the  vagrancy  law,  since  he 
had  neither  begged,  nor  helped  himself  appreciably 
to  the  means  of  subsistence. 

"  That  is  just  the  point,"  Mrs.  Bogardus  insisted. 
"  He  has  the  means  —  from  somewhere  —  to  lurk 
around  here  and  make  friends  with  that  child. 
There  may  be  a  gang  of  kidnappers  behind  him. 
He  is  the  harmless  looking  decoy.  I  insist  that 
you  keep  a  sharp  lookout,  Chauncey.  There  shall 
be  a  hold  upon  him,  law  or  no  law,  if  we  catch  him 
on  our  ground." 

A  cold  rain  set  in.  Paul  and  Moya  wrote  of 
delays  in  the  house  preparations,  and  hoped  the 
grandmother  was  not  growing  tired  of  her  charge. 
On  the  last  of  the  rainy  days,  in  a  burst  of  dubious 
sunshine,  came  a  young  girl  on  horseback  to  have  tea 
with  Mrs.  Bogardus.  She  was  one  of  that  lady's 
discoverers,  so  she  claimed,  Miss  Sallie  Remsen, 
very  pretty  and  full  of  fantastic  little  affectations 
founded  on  her  intense  appreciation  of  the  pictur 
esque.  She  called  Mrs.  Bogardus  "Madam,"  and 
likened  her  to  various  female  personages  in  history 
more  celebrated  for  strength  of  purpose  than  for 
the  Christian  virtues.  Mrs.  Bogardus,  in  her  rest- 
279 


THE   DESERT   AND  THE   SOWN 

ful  ignorance  of  such  futilities,  went  no  deeper 
into  these  allusions  than  their  intention,  which  she 
took  to  be  complimentary.  Miss  Sallie  hugged 
herself  with  joy  when  the  rain  came  down  in  tor 
rents  for  a  clear-up  shower.  Her  groom  was  sent 
home  with  a  note  to  inform  her  mother  that  Mrs. 
Bogardus  wished  to  keep  her  overnight.  All  the 
mothers  were  flattered  when  Mrs.  Bogardus  took 
notice  of  their  daughters,  —  even  much  grander 
dames  than  she  herself  could  pretend  to  be. 

They  had  a  charming  little  dinner  by  themselves 
to  the  tune  of  the  rain  outside,  and  were  having 
their  coffee  by  the  drawing-room  fire  ;  and  Miss 
Sallie  was  thinking  by  what  phrase  one  could  do 
justice  to  the  massive,  crass  ugliness  of  that  self- 
satisfied  apartment,  furnished  in  the  hideous  sixties, 
when  the  word  was  sent  in  that  Mrs.  Dunlop  wished 
to  speak  with  Mrs.  Bogardus.  Something  of  Ce- 
rissa's  injured  importance  survived  the  transmis 
sion  of  the  message,  causing  Mrs.  Bogardus  to 
smile  to  herself  as  she  rose.  Cerissa  was  waiting 
in  the  dining-room.  She  kept  her  seat  as  Mrs. 
Bogardus  entered.  Her  eyes  did  not  rise  higher 
than  the  lady's  dress,  which  she  examined  with  a 
fierce  intentness  of  comparison  while  she  opened 
her  errand. 

280 


INDIAN   SUMMER 

"  I  thought  you  'd  like  to  know  you  've  got  a 
strange  lodger  down  to  the  old  house.  I  don't 
seem  to  ever  get  moved  !  "  she  enlarged.  "  I  'm 
always  runnin'  down  there  after  first  one  thing 
'n'  another  we  've  forgot.  This  morning  't  was 
my  stone  batter-pot.  Chauncey  said  he  thought 
it  was  getting  cold  enough  for  buckwheat  cakes. 
I  don't  suppose  you  want  to  have  stray  tramps 
in  there  in  the  old  house,  building  fires  in  the 
loom-room,  where,  if  a  spark  got  loose,  it  would 
blaze  up  them  draughty  stairs,  and  the  whole  house 
would  go  in  a  minute."  Cerissa  stopped  to  gain 
breath. 

"  Making  fires  ?  Are  you  sure  of  that  ?  Has 
any  smoke  been  seen  coming  out  of  that  chim- 
ney?" 

"  Why,  it 's  been  raining  so !  And  the  trees 
have  got  so  tall !  But  I  could  show  you  the  shucks 
an'  shells  he  's  left  there.  I  know  how  we  left 
it!" 

"  You  had  better  speak  —  No  ;  I  will  see  Chaun 
cey  in  the  morning."  Mrs.  Bogardus  never,  if  she 
could  avoid  it,  gave  an  order  through  a  third  per 
son. 

"  Well,  I  thought  I  'd  just  step  in.  Chauncey 
said  't  was  no  use  disturbing  you  to-night,  but  he  's 
281 


THE   DESERT  AND   THE   SOWN 

just  that  way  —  so  easy  about  everything!  I 
thought  you  would  n't  want  to  be  harboring  tramps 
this  wet  weather  when  most  anybody  would  be 
tempted  to  build  a  fire.  I  'm  more  concerned 
about  what  goes  on  down  there  now  we  're  out  of 
the  house !  I  seem  to  have  it  on  my  mind  the 
whole  time.  A  house  is  just  like  a  child:  the 
more  you  don't  see  it  the  more  you  worry  about 
it." 

"  I  'm  glad  you  have  such  a  home  feeling  about 
the  place,"  said  Mrs.  Bogardus,  avoiding  the  onset 
of  words.  "  Well,  good-evening,  Cerissa.  Thank 
you  for  your  trouble.  I  will  see  about  it  in  the 
morning." 

Mrs.  Bogardus  mentioned  what  she  had  just 
heard  to  Miss  Sallie,  who  remarked,  with  her  keen 
sense  of  antithesis,  what  a  contrast  that  fireside 
must  be  to  this. 

"  Which  fireside  ?  " 

"  Oh,  your  lodger  upon  the  cold  ground,  —  mak 
ing  his  little  bit  of  a  stolen  blaze  in  that  cavern  of 
a  chimney  in  the  midst  of  the  wet  trees  !  What 
a  nice  thing  to  have  an  un watched  place  like  that 
where  a  poor  bird  of  passage  can  creep  in  and 
make  his  nest,  and  not  trouble  any  one.  Think 
what  Jean  Valjeans  one  might  shelter  "  — 
282 


INDIAN  SUMMER 

"Who?" 

"  What  '  angels  unawares.'  " 

"  It  will  be  unawares,  my  dear,  —  very  much 
unawares,  —  when  I  shelter  any  angels  of  that 
sort." 

"  Oh,  you  would  n't  turn  him  out,  such  weather 
as  this  ?  " 

"  The  house  is  not  mine,  in  the  first  place,"  Mrs. 
Bogardus  explained  as  to  a  child.  "  I  can't  enter 
tain  tramps  or  even  angels  on  my  son's  premises, 
when  he  's  away." 

"  Oh,  he !  He  would  build  the  fires  himself, 
and  make  up  their  beds,"  laughed  Miss  Sallie. 
"  If  he  were  here,  I  believe  he  would  start  down 
there  now,  and  stock  the  place  with  everything 
you  've  got  in  the  house  to  eat." 

"  I  hope  he  'd  leave  us  a  little  something  for 
breakfast,"  said  Mrs.  Bogardus  a  trifle  coldly. 
But  she  did  not  mention  the  cause  of  her  uneasi 
ness  about  this  particular  visitor.  She  never  de 
fended  herself. 

Miss  Sallie  was  delighted  with  her  callousness 
to  the  sentimental  rebuke  which  had  been  rather 
rubbed  in.  It  was  so  unmodern  ;  one  got  so  weary 
of  fashionable  philanthropy,  women  who  talked  of 
their  social  sympathies  and  their  principles  in  life. 
283 


THE   DESERT   AND  THE   SOWN 

She  almost  hoped  that  Mrs.  Bogardus  had  neither. 
Certainly  she  never  mentioned  them. 

"  What  did  she  say  ?  Did  she  tell  you  what  I 
said  to  her  last  night  ? "  Cerissa  questioned  her 
husband  feverishly  after  his  interview  with  Mrs. 
Bogardus. 

"  She  did  n't  mention  your  name,"  Chauncey 
took  some  pleasure  in  stating.  "  If  you  had  n't 
told  me  yourself,  I  should  n't  have  known  you  'd 
meddled  in  it  at  all." 

"  What 's  she  going  to  do  about  it  ?  " 

"  How  crazy  you  women  are  !  'Cause  some  poor 
old  Sooner-die-than-work  warms  his  bones  by  a  bit 
of  fire  that  would  n't  scare  a  chimbly  swaller  out 
of  its  nest  f  Don't  you  s'pose  if  there  'd  been  any  fire 
there  to  speak  of,  I  'd  'a'  seen  it  ?  What  am  I  here 
for  ?  Now  I  Ve  got  to  drop  everything,  and  git  a 
padlock  on  that  door,  and  lock  it  up  every  night, 
and  search  the  whole  place  from  top  to  bottom  for 
fear  there  's  some  one  in  there  hidin'  in  a  rathole  !  " 

"  Chauncey !  If  you  Ve  got  to  do  that  I  don't 
want  you  to  go  in  there  alone.  You  take  one  of 
the  men  with  you ;  and  you  better  have  a  pistol 
or  one  of  the  dogs  anyhow.  Suppose  you  was  to 
ketch  some  one  in  there,  and  corner  him !  He 
might  turn  on  you,  and  shoot  you !  " 
284 


INDIAN   SUMMER 

"  I  wish  you  would  n't  work  yourself  up  so 
about  nothin'  at  all !  Want  me  to  make  a  blame 
jackass  of  myself  raisin'  the  whole  place  about  a 
potato-peel  or  a  bacon-rind !  " 

"  I  think  you  might  have  some  little  regard  for 
my  feelings,"  Cerissa  whimpered.  "If  you  ain't 
afraid,  I  'm  afraid  for  you ;  and  I  don't  see  any 
thing  to  be  ashamed  of  either.  I  wish  you  would 
n't  go  alone  searching  through  that  spooky  old 
place.  It  just  puts  me  beside  myself  to  think  of 
it!" 

"  Well,  well !  That 's  enough  about  it  anyhow. 
I  ain't  going  to  do  anything  foolish,  and  you  need 
n't  think  no  more  about  it." 

Whether  it  was  the  effect  of  his  wife's  fears,  or 
his  promise  to  her,  or  the  inhospitable  nature  of 
his  errand  founded  on  suspicion,  certainly  Chaun- 
cey  showed  no  spirit  of  rashness  in  conducting  his 
search.  He  knocked  the  mud  off  his  boots  loudly 
on  the  doorsill  before  proceeding  to  attach  the 
padlock  to  the  outer  door.  He  searched  the  loom- 
room,  lighting  a  candle  and  peering  into  all  its 
cob  webbed  corners.  He  examined  the  rooms  lately 
inhabited,  unlocking  and  locking  doors  behind  him 
noisily  with  increasing  confidence  in  the  good  old 
house's  emptiness.  Still,  in  the  fireplace  in  the 
285 


THE   DESERT   AND   THE   SOWN 

loom-room  there  were  signs  of  furtive  cooking 
which  a  housekeeper's  eye  would  infallibly  detect. 
He  saw  that  the  search  must  proceed.  It  was  not 
all  a  question  of  his  wife's  fears,  as  he  opened  the 
stair-door  cautiously  and  tramped  slowly  up  towards 
the  tower  bedroom.  He  could  not  remember  who 
had  gone  out  last,  on  the  day  the  old  secretary  was 
moved  down.  There  had  been  four  men  up  there, 
and  —  yes,  the  key  was  still  in  the  lock  outside. 
He  clutched  it  and  it  fell  rattling  on  the  steps. 
He  swung  the  door  open  and  stared  into  the  fur 
ther  darkness  beyond  his  range  of  vision.  He 
waved  his  candle  as  far  as  his  arm  would  reach. 
"Anybody  in  here?"  he  shouted.  The  silence 
made  his  flesh  prick.  "  I  'in  goin'  to  lock  up  now. 
Better  show  up.  It 's  the  last  chance."  He  waited 
while  one  could  count  ten.  "  Anybody  in  here 
that  wants  to  be  let  free  ?  Nobody  's  goin'  to  hurt 

ye." 

To  his  anxious  relief  there  was  no  reply.  But 
as  he  listened,  he  heard  the  loud,  measured  tick, 
tick,  of  the  old  clock,  appalling  in  the  darkness,  on 
the  silence  of  that  empty  room.  Chauncey  could 
not  have  told  just  how  he  got  the  door  to,  nor 
where  he  found  strength  to  lock  it  and  drag  his 
feet  downstairs,  but  the  hand  that  held  the  key  was 
286 


INDIAN  SUMMER 

moist  with  cold  perspiration  as  he  reached  the  open 
air. 

"  Well,  if  that 's  rain  I  'd  like  to  know  where  it 
conies  from  !  "  He  looked  up  at  the  moon  break 
ing  through  drifting  clouds.  The  night  was  keen 
and  clear. 

"  If  I  was  to  tell  that  to  Cerissa  she  'd  never  go 
within  a  mile  o'  that  house  again  !  Maybe  I  was 
mistaken  —  but  I  ain't  goin'  back  to  see !  " 

Next  morning  on  calmer  reflection  he  changed 
his  mind  about  removing  the  lawn-mower  and  other 
hand-tools  from  the  loom-room  as  he  had  deter 
mined  overnight  should  be  done.  The  place  con 
tinued  to  be  used  as  a  storeroom,  open  by  day. 
At  night  it  was  Chauncey's  business  to  lock  it  up, 
and  he  was  careful  to  repeat  his  search  —  as  far  as 
the  stair-door.  Never  did  the  silent  room  above 
give  forth  a  protest,  a  sound  of  human  restraint  or 
occupation.  He  reported  to  the  mistress  that  all 
was  snug  at  the  old  house,  and  nobody  anywhere 
about  the  place. 


287 


XXV 

THE  FELL  FROST 

A  FTER  the  rain  came  milder  days.  The  still 
JTJL.  white  mornings  slowly  brightened  into  hazy 
afternoons.  The  old  moon  like  a  sleep  walker 
stood  exposed  in  the  morning  sky.  The  roads  to 
Stone  Ridge  were  deep  in  fallen  leaves.  Soft-tired 
wheels  rustled  up  the  avenue  and  horses'  feet  fell 
light,  as  the  last  of  the  summer  neighbors  came  to 
say  good-by. 

It  was  a  party  of  four,  —  Miss  Sallie  and  a  good- 
looking  youth  of  the  football  cult  on  horseback, 
her  mother  and  an  elder  sister,  the  delicate  Miss 
Remsen,  in  a  hired  carriage.  Their  own  traps  had 
been  sent  to  town. 

Tea  was  served  promptly,  as  the  visitors  had  a 
long  road  home  before  their  dinner-hour.  In  the 
reduced  state  of  the  establishment  it  was  Katy  who 
brought  the  tea  while  Cerissa  looked  after  her  little 
charge.  Cerissa  sat  on  the  kitchen  porch  sewing 
and  expanding  under  the  deep  attention  of  the 
288 


THE   FELL  FROST 

cook  ;  they  could  see  Middy  a  little  way  off  on  the 
tennis-court  wiping  the  mud  gravely  from  a  truant 
ball  he  had  found  among  the  nasturtiums.  All 
was  as  peaceful  as  the  time  of  day  and  the  season 
of  the  year. 

"  Yes,"  said  Cerissa  solemnly.  "  Old  Abraham 
Van  Elten  was  too  much  cumbered  up  with  this 
world  to  get  quit  of  it  as  easy  as  some.  If  his 
spirit  is  burdened  with  a  message  to  anybody  it 's  to 
her.  He  died  onreconciled  to  her,  and  she  inher 
ited  all  this  place  in  spite  of  him,  as  you  may  say. 
I  've  come  as  near  believiii'  in  such  things  since  the 
goings  on  up  there  in  that  room  "  — 

"  She  wants  Middy  fetched  in  to  see  the  com- 
p'ny,"  cried  Katy,  bursting  into  the  sentence. 
"  Where  is  he,  till  I  clean  him  ?  And  she  wants 
some  more  bread  and  butter  as  quick  as  ye  can 
spread  it." 

"  Well,  Katy !  "  said  Cerissa  slowly,  with  severe 
emphasis.  "  When  I  was  a  girl,  my  mother  used 
to  tell  me  it  was  n't  manners  to  " 

"  I  have  n't  got  time  to  hear  about  yer  mother," 
said  Katy  rudely.  "  What  have  ye  done  with  me 
boy  ?  "  The  tennis-court  lay  vacant  on  the  terrace 
in  the  sun  ;  the  steep  lawn  sloped  away  and  dipped 
into  the  trees. 

289 


THE   DESERT   AND  THE   SOWN 

"  Don't  call,"  said  the  cook  warily.  "  It  '11 
only  scare  her.  He  was  there  only  a  minute  ago. 
Run,  Katy,  and  see  if  he 's  at  the  stables." 

It  was  not  noticed,  except  by  Mrs.  Bogardus, 
that  no  Katy,  and  no  boy,  and  no  bread  and  butter, 
had  appeared.  Possibly  the  last  deficiency  had 
attracted  a  little  playful  attention  from  the  young 
horseback  riders,  who  were  accusing  each  other  of 
eating  more  than  their  respective  shares. 

At  length  Miss  Sallie  perceived  there  was  some 
thing  on  her  hostess's  mind.  "  Where  is  John 
Middleton  ?  "  she  whispered.  "  Katy  is  dressing 
him  all  over,  from  head  to  foot,  is  n't  she  ?  I 
hope  she  isn't  curling  his  hair.  John  Middleton 
has  such  wonderful  hair  !  I  refuse  to  go  back 
to  New  York  till  I  have  introduced  you  to 
John  Middleton  Bogardus,"  she  announced  to  the 
young  man,  who  laughed  at  everything  she  said. 
Mrs.  Bogardus  smiled  vacantly  and  glanced  at  the 
door. 

"  Let  me  go  find  Katy,"  cried  Miss  Sally.  Katy 
entered  as  she  spoke,  and  said  a  few  words  to  the 
mistress.  "  Excuse  me."  Mrs.  Bogardus  rose  has 
tily.  She  asked  Miss  Sallie  to  take  her  place  at 
the  tea-tray. 

"  What  is  it  ?  " 

290 


THE   FELL   FROST 

"  The  boy  —  they  cannot  find  him.  Don't  say 
anything."  She  had  turned  ashy  white,  and  Katy's 
pretty  flushed  face  had  a  wild  expression. 

In  five  minutes  the  search  had  begun.  Mrs. 
Bogardus  was  at  the  telephone,  calling  up  the 
quarry,  for  she  was  short  of  men.  One  order  fol 
lowed  another  quickly.  Her  voice  was  harsh  and 
deep.  She  had  frankly  forgotten  her  guests.  Em 
barrassed  by  their  own  uselessness,  yet  unable  to 
take  leave,  they  lingered  and  discussed  the  mystery 
of  this  sudden,  acute  alarm. 

"  It  is  the  sore  spot,"  said  Miss  Sally  sentimen 
tally.  "  You  know  her  husband  was  missing  for 
years  before  she  gave  him  up  ;  and  then  that  dread 
ful  time,  three  years  ago,  when  they  were  so  fright 
ened  about  Paul." 

Having  spread  the  alarm,  Mrs.  Bogardus  took 
the  field  in  person.  Her  head  was  bare  in  the 
keen,  sunset  light.  She  moved  with  strong,  fleet 
steps,  but  a  look  of  sudden  age  stamped  her 
face. 

"  Go  back,  all  of  you  !  "  she  said  to  the  women, 
who  crowded  on  her  heels.  "  There  are  plenty 
of  places  to  look."  Her  stern  eyes  resisted  their 
frightened  sympathy.  She  was  not  ready  to  yield 
to  the  consciousness  of  her  own  fears. 
291 


THE   DESERT  AND  THE   SOWN 

To  the  old  house  she  went,  by  some  sure  instinct 
that  told  her  the  road  to  trouble.  But  her  trouble 
stood  off  from  her,  and  spared  her  for  one  moment 
of  exquisite  relief ;  as  if  the  child  of  Paul  and 
Moya  had  no  part  in  what  was  waiting  for  her. 
The  door  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  stood  open.  She 
heard  a  soft,  repeated  thud.  Panting,  she  climbed 
the  stairs  ;  and  as  she  rounded  the  shoulder  of  the 
chimney,  there,  on  the  top  step  above  her,  stood 
the  fair-haired  child,  making  the  only  light  in  the 
place.  He  was  knocking,  with  his  foolish  ball,  on 
the  door  of  the  chamber  of  fear.  Three  genera 
tions  of  the  living  and  the  dead  were  brought 
together  in  this  coil  of  fate,  and  the  child,  in  his 
happy  innocence,  had  joined  the  knot. 

The  woman  crouching  on  the  stairs  could  barely 
whisper,  "  Middy  !  "  lest  if  she  startled  him  he 
might  turn  and  fall.  He  looked  down  at  her, 
unsurprised,  and  paused  in  his  knocking.  "  Man 
—  in  there  —  won't  'peak  to  Middy  !  "  he  said. 

She  crept  towards  him  and  sat  below  him,  coax 
ing  him  into  her  lap.  The  strange  motions  of  her 
breast,  as  she  pressed  his  head  against  her,  kept 
the  boy  quiet,  and  in  that  silence  she  heard  an 
inner  sound  —  the  awful  pulse  of  the  old  clock 
beating  steadily,  calling  her,  demanding  the  evi- 
292 


THE   FELL   FROST 

dence  of  her  senses,  —  she  who  feared  no  ghosts,  — 
beating  out  the  hours  of  an  agony  she  was  there  to 
witness.  And  she  was  yet  in  time.  The  hapless 
creature  entrapped  within  that  room  dragged  its 
weight  slowly  across  the  floor.  The  clock,  sole 
witness  and  companion  of  its  sufferings,  ticked  on 
impartially.  Neither  is  this  any  new  thing,  it 
seemed  to  say.  A  life  was  starved  in  here  be 
fore  —  not  for  lack  of  food,  but  love,  —  love,  — 
love! 

She  carried  the  child  out  into  the  air,  and  he 
ran  before  her  like  a  breeze.  The  women  who 
met  them  stared  at  her  sick  and  desperate  face. 
She  made  herself  quickly  understood,  and  as  each 
listener  drained  her  meaning  the  horror  spread. 
There  was  but  one  man  left  on  the  place,  within 
call,  he  with  the  boyish  face  and  clean  brown  hands, 
who  had  ridden  across  the  fields  for  an  afternoon's 
idle  pleasure.  He  stepped  to  her  side  and  took  the 
key  out  of  her  hand.  "  You  ought  not  to  do  this," 
he  said  gently,  as  their  eyes  met. 

"  Wednesday,  Thursday,  Friday,"  she  counted 
mechanically.  "  He  has  been  in  there  six  days  and 
seven  nights  by  my  orders."  She  looked  straight 
before  her,  seeing  no  one,  as  she  gave  her  com 
mands  to  the  women  :  fire  and  hot  water  and  stimu- 
293 


THE   DESERT   AND  THE   SOWN 

lants,  in  the  kitchen  of  the  old  house  at  once,  and 
another  man,  if  one  could  be  found  to  follow 
her. 

The  two  figures  moving  across  the  grass  might 
have  stepped  out  of  an  illustration  in  the  pages  of 
some  current  magazine.  In  their  thoughts  they 
had  already  unlocked  the  door  of  that  living  death 
and  were  face  to  face  with  the  insupportable  facts 
of  nature. 

The  morbid,  sickening,  prison  odor  met  them  at 
the  door  —  humanity's  helpless  protest  against  bolts 
and  bars.  Again  the  young  man  begged  his  com 
panion  not  to  enter.  She  took  one  deep  breath  of 
the  pure  outside  air  and  stepped  before  him.  They 
searched  the  emptiness  of  the  barely  furnished 
room.  The  clock  ticked  on  to  itself.  Mrs.  Bogar- 
dus's  companion  stood  irresolute,  not  knowing  the 
place.  The  fetid  air  confused  his  senses.  But  she 
went  past  him  through  the  inner  door,  guided  by 
remembrance  of  the  sounds  she  had  heard. 

She  had  seen  it.  She  approached  it  cautiously, 
stooping  for  a  better  view,  and  closing  in  upon  it 
warily,  as  one  cuts  off  the  retreat  of  a  creature  in 
the  last  agonies  of  flight.  Her  companion  heard 
her  say  :  "  Show  me  your  face  !  —  Uncover  his 
face,"  she  repeated,  not  moving  her  eyes  as  he 
294 


THE   FELL   FROST 

stepped  behind  her.  "  He  will  not  let  me  near 
him.  Uncover  it." 

The  thing  in  the  corner  had  some  time  been  a 
man.  There  was  still  enough  manhood  left  to  feel 
her  eyes  and  to  shrink  as  an  earthworm  from  the 
spade.  He  had  crawled  close  to  the  baseboard  of 
the  room.  An  old  man's  ashen  beard  straggled 
through  the  brown  claws  wrapped  about  the  face. 
As  the  dust  of  the  threshing  floor  to  the  summer 
grain,  so  was  his  likeness  to  one  she  remem 
bered. 

"  I  must  see  that  man's  face !  "  she  panted. 
"  He  will  die  if  I  touch  him.  Take  away  his 
hands."  It  was  done,  with  set  teeth,  and  the  face 
of  the  football  hero  was  bathed  in  sweat.  He 
breathed  through  tense  nostrils,  and  a  sickly  white 
ness  spread  backward  from  his  lips.  Suddenly  he 
loosed  his  burden.  It  fell,  doubling  in  a  ghastly 
heap,  and  he  rushed  for  the  open  air. 

Mrs.  Bogardus  groaned.  She  raised  herself  up 
slowly,  stretching  back  her  head.  Her  face  was 
like  the  terrible  tortured  mask  of  the  Medusa. 
She  had  but  a  moment  in  which  to  recover  herself. 
Deliberately  she  spoke  when  her  companion  re 
turned  and  stood  beside  her. 

"  That  was  my  husband.  If  he  lives  I  am  still 
295 


THE   DESERT   AND  THE   SOWN 

his  wife.  You  are  not  to  forget  this.  It  is  no  se 
cret.  Are  you  able  to  help  me  now  ?  Get  a  blanket 
from  the  women.  I  hear  some  one  coming." 

She  waited,  with  head  erect  and  eyes  closed  and 
rigid  tortured  lips  apart,  till  the  feet  were  heard 
at  the  door. 


296 


XXVI 

PEACE   TO  THIS  HOUSE 

MRS.  REMSEN  and  her  delicate  daughter 
had  driven  away  to  avoid  excitement  and 
the  night  air. 

Chauncey  hovered  round  the  piazza  steps,  talk 
ing,  with  but  little  encouragement,  to  Miss  Sallie 
and  the  young  man  who  had  become  the  centre  of 
all  eyes. 

"  I  don't  see  how  anybody  on  the  face  of  the 
earth  could  blame  her,  nor  me  either !  "  Chauncey 
protested.  "  If  the  critter  wanted  to  git  out,  why 
could  n't  he  say  so  ?  I  stood  there  holdin'  the  door 
open  much  as  five  minutes.  '  Who  's  in  there  ? '  I 
says.  I  called  it  loud  enough  to  wake  the  dead. 
*  Nobody  wants  to  hurt  ye,'  says  I.  There  want 
nothing  to  be  afraid  of.  He  had  n't  done  nothing 
anyway.  It 's  the  strangest  case  ever  I  heard  tell 
of.  And  the  doctor  don't  think  he  was  much  crazy 
either." 

"  Can  he  live  ?  "  asked  Miss  Sallie. 
297 


THE   DESERT   AND   THE   SOWN 

"  He  's  alive  now,  but  doctor  don't  know  how 
long  lie  '11  last.  There  he  comes  now.  I  must  go 
and  git  his  horse." 

The  doctor,  who  seemed  nervous,  —  he  was  a 
young  local  practitioner,  —  asked  to  speak  with 
Miss  Sallie's  hero  apart. 

"  Did  Mrs.  Bogardus  say  anything  when  she  first 
saw  that  man  ?  Did  you  notice  what  she  said  ?  — 
how  she  took  it  ?  " 

The  hero,  who  was  also  a  gentleman,  looked  at 
the  doctor  coolly. 

"  It  was  not  a  nice  thing,"  he  said.  "  I  saw 
just  as  little  as  I  could." 

"You  don't  understand  me,"  said  the  doctor. 
"  I  want  to  know  if  Mrs.  Bogardus  appeared  to  you 
to  have  made  any  discovery  —  received  any  shock 
not  to  be  accounted  for  by  —  by  what  you  both 
saw  ?  " 

"  I  should  n't  attempt  to  answer  such  a  ques 
tion,"  said  the  youngster  bluntly.  "  I  never  saw 
Mrs.  Bogardus  in  my  life  before  to-day." 

The  doctor  colored.  "  Mrs.  Bogardus  has  given 
me  a  telegram  to  send,  and  I  don't  know  whether 
to  send  it  or  not.  It 's  going  to  make  a  whole  lot 
of  talk.  I  am  not  much  acquainted  with  Mrs. 
Bogardus  myself,  except  by  hearsay.  That 's  partly 
298 


PEACE   TO   THIS   HOUSE 

what  surprises  me.  It  looks  a  little  reckless  to 
send  out  such  a  message  as  that,  by  the  first  hand 
that  comes  along.  Had  n't  we  better  give  her  time 
to  think  it  over  ?  "  He  opened  the  telegram  for 
the  other  to  read.  "  The  man  himself  can't  speak. 
But  he  just  pants  for  breath  every  time  she  comes 
near  him :  he  tries  to  hide  his  face.  He  acts  like 
a  criminal  afraid  of  being  caught." 

"  He  did  n't  look  that  way  to  me  —  what  was 
left  of  him.  Not  in  the  least  like  a  criminal." 

"  Well,  no  ;  that 's  a  fact,  too.  Now  they  've  got 
him  laid  out  clean  and  neat,  he  looks  as  if  he  might 
have  been  a  very  decent  sort  of  man.  But  that, 
you  know  —  that 's  incredible.  If  she  knows  him, 
why  does  n't  he  know  her  ?  Why  won't  he  own 
her  ?  He  's  afraid  of  her.  His  eyes  are  ready  to 
burst  out  of  his  head  whenever  she  comes  near 
him." 

"  Did  Mrs.  Bogardus  write  that  telegram  her 
self?" 

«  She  did." 

"  And  what  did  she  tell  you  to  do  with  it  ?  " 

"  Send  it  to  her  son." 

"  Then  why  don't  you  send  it  ?  " 

This  was  the  disputed  message  :  "  Come.  Your 
father  has  been  found.  Bring  Doctor  Gainsworth." 
299 


THE   DESERT   AND  THE   SOWN 

Iu  the  local  man's  opinion,  the  writer  of  that 
dispatch  was  Doctor  Gainsworth's  true  patient. 
What  could  induce  a  woman  in  Mrs.  Bogardus's 
position  to  give  such  hasty  publicity  to  this  shock 
ing  disclosure,  allowing  it  were  true  ?  The  more 
he  dwelt  on  it  the  less  he  liked  the  responsibility 
he  was  taking.  He  discussed  it  openly  ;  and,  with 
the  best  intentions,  this  much-impressed  young  man 
gave  out  his  own  counter-theory  of  the  case,  hoping 
to  forestall  whatever  mischief  might  have  been  done. 
He  put  himself  in  the  place  of  Mr.  Paul  Bogardus, 
whom  he  liked  extremely,  and  tried  to  imagine  that 
young  gentleman's  state  of  mind  when  he  should 
look  upon  this  new-found  parent,  and  learn  the  man 
ner  of  his  resurrection. 

This  was  the  explanation  he  boldly  set  forth  in 
behalf  of  those  most  nearly  concerned.  [He  was 
getting  up  his  diagnosis  for  an  interesting  half 
hour  with  the  great  doctor  who  had  been  called  in 
consultation.]  The  shock  of  that  awful  discovery 
in  the  locked  chamber,  he  attested,  had  put  Mrs. 
Bogardus  temporarily  beside  herself.  Outwardly 
composed,  her  nerves  were  ripped  and  torn  by  the 
terrible  sight  that  met  her  eyes.  She  was  the  prey 
of  an  hallucination  founded  on  memories  of  former 
suffering,  which  had  worn  a  channel  for  every  fresh 
300 


PEACE  TO   THIS   HOUSE 

fear  to  seek.  There  was  something  truly  noble 
and  loyal  and  pathetic  in  the  nature  of  her  posses 
sion.  It  threw  a  softened  light  upon  her  past. 
How  must  she  have  brooded,  all  these  years,  for 
that  one  thought  to  have  ploughed  so  deep  !  It 
was  quite  commonly  known  in  the  neighborhood 
that  she  had  come  back  from  the  West  years  ago 
without  her  husband,  yet  with  no  proof  of  his  death. 
But  who  could  have  believed  she  would  cling  for 
half  a  lifetime  to  this  forlorn  expectancy,  depicting 
her  own  loss  in  every  sad  hulk  of  humanity  cast 
upon  her  prosperous  shores  ! 

Every  one  believed  she  was  deceiving  herself, 
but  great  honor  was  hers  among  the  neighbors  for 
the  plain  truth  and  courage  of  her  astonishing 
avowal.  They  had  thought  her  proud,  exclusive, 
hard  in  the  security  of  wealth.  Here  she  stood  by 
a  pauper's  bed  in  the  name  of  simple  constancy, 
stripping  herself  of  all  earthly  surplusage,  expos 
ing  her  deepest  wound,  proclaiming  the  bond  — 
herself  its  only  witness  —  between  her  and  this 
speechless  wreck,  drifting  out  on  the  tide  of  death. 
She  had  but  to  let  him  go.  It  was  the  wild  word 
she  had  spoken  in  the  name  of  truth  and  death 
less  love  that  fired  the  imagination  of  that  slow 
countryside.  It  was  the  touch  beyond  nature  that 
301 


THE  DESERT  AND   THE   SOWN 

appeals  to  the  higher  sense  of  a  community,  and 
there  is  no  community  without  a  soul. 

The  straight  demands  of  justice  are  frequently 
hard  to  meet,  but  its  ironies  are  crushing.  Mrs. 
Bogardus  had  fallen  back  on  the  line  of  a  mother's 
duty  since  that  moment  of  personal  accountability. 
She  read  the  unspoken  reverence  in  the  eyes  of  all 
around  her,  but  she  put  in  no  disclaimer.  Her 
past  was  not  her  own.  She  could  not  sin  alone. 
Only  those  who  have  been  honest  are  privileged 
under  all  conditions  to  remain  so. 

On  his  arrival  with  the  doctor,  Paul  endeavored 
first  to  see  his  mother  alone.  For  some  reason  she 
would  not  have  it  so.  She  took  the  unspeakable 
situation  as  it  came.  He  was  shown  into  the  room 
where  she  sat,  and  by  her  orders  Doctor  Gains- 
worth  was  with  him. 

She  rose  quietly  and  came  to  meet  them.  Pla 
cing  her  hand  in  her  son's  arm,  and  looking  towards 
the  bed,  she  said  :  — 

"  Doctor  —  my  husband." 

"  Madam  !  "  said  Doctor  Gainsworth.  He  had 
been  Mrs.  Bogardus's  family  physician  for  many 
years. 

"  My  husband,"  she  repeated. 

The  doctor  appeared  to  accept  the  statement. 
302 


PEACE   TO   THIS   HOUSE 

As  the  three  approached  the  bed  Mrs.  Bogardus 
leaned  heavily  upon  her  son.  Paul  released  his 
arm  and  placed  it  firmly  around  her.  He  felt  her 
shudder.  "  Mother,"  he  said  to  her  with  an  inde 
scribable  accent  that  tore  her  heart. 

The  doctor  began  his  examination.  He  ad 
dressed  his  patient  as  "  Mr.  Bogardus." 

"  Mistake,"  said  a  low,  husky  voice  from  the 
bed.  "  This  ain't  the  man." 

Doctor  Gainsworth  pursued  his  investigations. 
"  What  is  your  name  ? "  he  asked  the  patient 
suddenly. 

The  hunted  eyes  turned  with  ghastly  appeal  upon 
the  faces  around  him. 

"  Paul,  speak  to  him  !  Own  your  father,"  Mrs. 
Bogardus  whispered  passionately. 

"  It  is  for  him  to  speak  now,"  said  Paul. 
"  When  he  is  well,  Doctor,"  he  added  aloud,  "  he 
will  know  his  own  name." 

"  This  man  will  never  be  well,"  the  doctor  an 
swered.  "  If  there  is  anything  to  prove,  for  or 
against  the  identity  you  claim  for  him,  it  will  have 
to  be  done  within  a  very  few  days." 

Doctor  Gainsworth  rose  and  held  out  his  hand. 
He  was  a  man  of  delicate  perceptions.  His  respect 
at  that  moment  for  Mrs.  Bogardus,  though  founded 
303 


THE  DESERT  AND   THE   SOWN 

on  blindest  conjecture,  was  an  emotion  which  the 
mask  of  his  professional  manner  could  barely  con 
ceal.  "  As  a  friend,  Mrs.  Bogardus,  I  hope  you 
will  command  me  —  but  you  need  no  doctor 
here." 

"  As  a  friend  I  ask  you  to  believe  me,"  she  said. 
"  This  man  is  my  husband.  He  came  back  here 
because  this  was  his  home.  I  cannot  tell  you  any 
more,  but  this  we  expect  you  and  every  one  who 
knows  "  — 

The  dissenting  voice  from  the  bed  closed  her 
assertion  with  a  hoarse  "  No  !  Not  the  man." 

"  Good-by,  Mrs.  Bogardus,"  said  the  doctor. 
"  Don't  trouble  to  explain.  You  and  I  have  lived 
too  long  and  seen  too  much  of  life  not  to  recognize 
its  fatalities  :  the  mysterious  trend  in  the  actions 
of  men  and  women  that  cannot  be  comprised  in  — 
in  the  locking  of  a  door." 

"  It  is  of  little  consequence  —  what  was  done, 
compared  to  what  was  not  done."  This  was  all 
the  room  for  truth  she  could  give  herself  to  turn 
in.  The  doctor  did  not  try  to  understand  her : 
yet  she  had  snatched  a  little  comfort  from  merely 
uttering  the  words. 

Paul  and  the  doctor  dined  together,  Mrs.  Bogar 
dus  excusing  herself. 

304 


PEACE  TO  THIS  HOUSE 

"  There  seems  to  be  an  impression  here,"  said 
the  doctor,  examining  the  initials  on  his  fish-fork, 
"  that  your  mother  is  indulging  an  overstrained 
fancy  in  this  melancholy  resemblance  she  has  traced. 
It  does  not  appear  to  have  made  much  headway 
as  a  fact,  which  rather  surprises  me  in  a  country 
neighborhood.  Possibly  your  doctor  here,  who 
seems  a  very  good  fellow,  has  wished  to  spare  the 
family  any  unnecessary  explanations.  If  you  '11 
let  me  advise  you,  Paul,  I  would  leave  it  as  it  is,  — 
open  to  conjecture.  But,  in  whatever  shape  this 
impression  may  reach  you  from  outside,  I  hope  you 
won't  let  it  disturb  you  in  the  least,  so  far  as/  it 
describes  your  mother's  condition.  She  is  one  of 
the  few  well-balanced  women  I  have  had  the  honor 
to  know." 

Paul  did  not  take  advantage  of  the  doctor's 
period.  He  went  on. 

"Not  that  I  do  know  her.  Possibly  you  may 
not  yourself  feel  that  you  altogether  understand 
your  mother  ?  She  has  had  many  demands  upon 
her  powers  of  adaptation.  I  should  imagine  her 
not  one  who  would  adapt  herself  easily,  yet,  once 
she  had  recognized  a  necessity  of  that  sort,  I  be 
lieve  she  would  fit  herself  to  its  conditions  with  an 
exacting  thoroughness  which  in  time  would  become 
305 


THE   DESERT   AND  THE   SOWN 

almost,  one  might  say,  a  second,  an  external  self. 
The  '  len dings  '  we  must  all  of  us  wear." 

"  There  will  be  no  explanations,"  said  Paul,  not 
coldly,  but  helplessly. 

"  Much  the  best  way,"  said  the  doctor  relieved, 
and  glad  to  be  done  with  a  difficult  undertak 
ing.  "  If  we  are  ever  understood  in  this  world, 
it  is  not  through  our  own  explanations,  but  in 
spite  of  them.  My  daughters  hope  to  see  a  good 
deal  of  your  charming  wife  this  winter.  I  hear 
great  pleasure  expressed  at  your  coming  back  to 
town." 

"  Thank  you,  Doctor.  She  will  be  up  this  even 
ing.  We  shall  stay  here  with  my  mother  for  a 
time.  It  will  be  her  desire  to  carry  out  this  — 
recognition  —  to  the  end.  We  must  honor  her 
wishes  in  the  matter." 

The  talk  then  fell  upon  the  patient's  condition. 
The  doctor  left  certain  directions  and  took  shelter 
in  professional  platitudes,  but  his  eyes  rested  with 
candid  kindness  upon  the  young  man,  and  his  fare 
well  hand-clasp  was  a  second  prolonged. 

He  went  away  in  a  state  of  simple  wonderment, 
deeply  marveling  at  Paul's  serenity. 

"  Extraordinary  poise  !  Where  does  it  come 
from  ?  No :  the  boy  is  happy !  He  hides  it ;  but 
306 


PEACE  TO  THIS   HOUSE 

it  is  the  one  change  in  him.     He  has  experienced 
a  great  relief.     Is  it  possible  " 

On  his  way  down  the  river  the  doctor  continued 
to  muse  upon  the  dignity,  the  amazingly  beautiful 
behavior  of  this  rising  family  in  whose  somewhat 
commonplace  city  fortunes  he  had  taken  a  friendly 
interest  for  years.  He  owned  that  he  had  sounded 
them  with  too  short  a  line. 

Watching  with  the  dying  man  hours  when  she 
was  with  him  alone,  Emily  Bogardus  continued  to 
test  his  resolution.  He  never  retracted  by  a  look 
—  faithful  to  the  word  she  had  spoken  which  made 
them  strangers. 

It  was  the  slightest  shell  of  mortality  that  ever 
detained  a  soul  on  earth.  The  face,  small  like  the 
face  of  an  old,  old  child,  waxed  finer  and  more 
spiritual,  yet  ever  more  startlingly  did  it  bear  the 
stamp  of  that  individuality  which  the  spirit  had 
held  so  cheap  —  the  earthly  so  impenetrated  with 
the  spiritual  part  that  the  face  had  become  a  sub 
limation.  As  one  sees  a  sheet  of  paper  covered 
with  writing  wither  in  flame  and  become  a  quiver 
ing  ash,  yet  to  the  last  attenuation  of  its  fibre  the 
human  characters  will  stand  forth,  till  all  is  blown 
up  chimney  to  the  stars. 

307 


THE   DESERT  AND  THE   SOWN 

Still,  peaceful,  implacable  in  its  peace,  settling 
down  for  the  silence  of  eternity.  Still  no  sign. 

The  younger  ones  came  and  went.  The  little 
boy  stole  in  alone  and  pushed  against  his  grand 
mother's  knee,  —  she  seated  always  by  the  bed,  — 
gazed,  puzzled,  at  the  strange,  still  face,  and  whis 
pered  obediently,  "  Gran'faver."  There  was  no 
response.  Once  she  took  the  boy  and  drew  him 
close  and  placed  his  little  tender  hand  within  the 
dry,  crumpled  husk  extended  on  the  bedclothes. 
The  eyes  unclosed  and  rested  long  and  earnestly 
on  the  face  of  the  child,  who  yawned  as  if  hypno 
tized  and  flung  his  head  back  on  the  grandmother's 
breast.  She  bent  suddenly  and  laid  her  own  hand 
where  the  child's  had  been.  The  eyes  turned 
inward  and  shut  again,  but  a  sigh,  so  deep  it 
seemed  that  another  breath  might  never  come,  was 
all  her  answer. 

Past  midnight  of  the  fourth  night's  watch  Paul 
was  awakened  by  a  light  in  his  room.  His  mo 
ther  stood  beside  him,  white  and  worn.  "  He  is 
going,"  she  said.  It  was  the  final  rally  of  the 
body's  resistance.  A  few  moments'  expenditure, 
and  that  stubborn  vitality  would  loose  its  hold.  — 
The  strength  of  the  soil ! 

The  wife  stood  aside  and  gave  up  her  place  to 
308 


PEACE  TO  THIS   HOUSE 

the  children.  Her  expression  was  noble,  like  a 
queen  rebuked  before  her  people.  There  was 
comfort  in  that,  too.  A  great,  solemn,  mutual 
understanding  drew  this  death-bed  group  together. 
Within  the  sickle's  compass  so  they  stood :  the 
woman  God  gave  this  man  to  found  a  home ;  the 
son  who  inherited  his  father's  gentleness  and  purity 
of  purpose  ;  the  fair  flower  of  the  generations  that 
father's  sacrifice  had  helped  him  win  ;  the  bud  of 
promise  on  the  topmost  bough.  Those  astonished 
eyes  shed  their  last  earthly  light  on  this  human 
group,  turned  and  rested  in  the  eyes  of  the  woman, 
faded,  and  the  light  went  out.  He  died,  blessing 
her  in  one  whispered  word.  Her  name. 

Before  daybreak  on  the  morning  of  the  funeral, 
Paul  awoke  under  pressure  of  disturbing  dreams. 
There  were  sounds  of  hushed  movements  in  the 
house.  He  traced  them  to  the  door  of  the  room 
below  stairs  where  his  father  lay.  Some  one  had 
softly  unlocked  that  door,  and  entered.  He  knew 
who  that  one  must  be.  His  place  was  there  alone 
with  his  mother,  before  they  were  called  together 
as  a  family,  and  the  mask  of  decency  resumed  for 
those  ironic  rites  in  the  presence  of  the  unaccusing 
dead. 

The  windows  had  been  lowered  behind  closed 
309 


THE   DESERT  AND  THE   SOWN 

curtains,  and  the  air  of  the  death  chamber,  as  he 
entered,  was  like  the  touch  of  chilled  iron  to  the 
warm  pulse  of  sleep.  Without,  a  still  dark  night 
of  November  had  frosted  the  dead  grass. 

The  unappeasable  curiosity  of  the  living  con 
cerning  the  Great  Transition,  for  the  moment  ap 
peared  to  have  swept  all  that  was  personal  out  of 
the  watcher's  gaze,  as  she  bent  above  the  straight 
ened  body.  And  something  of  the  peace  there 
dawning  on  the  cold,  still  face  was  reflected  in  her 
own. 

"  You  have  never  seen  your  father  before. 
There  he  is."  She  drew  a  deep  sigh,  as  if  she 
had  been  too  intent  to  breathe  naturally.  All  her 
self-consciousness  suddenly  was  gone.  And  Paul 
remembered  his  dream,  that  had  goaded  him  out  of 
sleep,  and  vanished  with  the  shock  of  waking.  It 
gave  him  the  key  to  this  long-expected  moment  of 
confidence. 

"  The  old  likeness  has  come  back,"  his  mother 
repeated,  with  that  new  quietness  which  restored 
her  to  herself. 

"  I  dreamed  of  that  likeness,"  said  Paul,  "  only 

it  was  much    stronger  —  startling  —  so    that    the 

room  was  full  of  whispers  and  exclamations  as  the 

neighbors  —  there  were  hundreds  of  them  —  filed 

310 


PEACE   TO   THIS   HOUSE 

past.  And  you  stood  there,  mother,  flushed,  and 
talking  to  each  person  who  passed  and  looked  at 
him  and  then  at  you  ;  you  said  —  you  "  — 

Mrs.  Bogardus  raised  her  head.  "  I  know !  I 
have  been  thinking  all  night.  Am  I  to  do  that  ? 
Is  that  what  you  wish  me  to  do  ?  Don't  hesitate 
—  to  spare  me." 

"  Mother !  I  could  not  imagine  you  doing  such 
a  thing.  It  was  like  insanity.  I  wanted  to  tell 
you  how  horrible,  how  unseemly  it  was,  because  I 
was  sure  you  had  been  dwelling  on  some  form  — 
some  outward  "  — 

"  No,"  she  said.  "  I  know  how  I  should  face 
this  if  it  were  left  to  me.  But  you  are  my  only 
earthly  judge,  my  son.  Judge  now  between  us 
two.  Ask  of  me  anything  you  think  is  due  to 
him.  As  to  outsiders,  what  do  they  matter  !  I 
will  do  anything  you  say." 

"  /  say  !  Oh,  mother !  Every  hand  he  loved 
was  against  him  —  bruising  his  gentle  will.  Each 
one  of  us  has  cast  a  stone  upon  his  grave.  But 
you  took  the  brunt  of  it.  You  spoke  out  plain 
the  denial  that  was  in  my  coward's  heart  from  the 
first.  And  I  judged  you  !  I  —  who  uncovered 
my  father's  soul  to  ease  my  own  conscience,  and 
put  him  to  shame  and  torture,  and  you  to  a  trial 
311 


THE  DESERT  AND  THE   SOWN 

worse  than  death.  Now  let  us  think  of  the  whole 
of  his  life.  I  have  much  to  tell  you.  You  could 
not  listen  before ;  but  now  he  is  listening.  I  speak 
for  him.  This  is  how  he  loved  us !  " 

In  hard,  brief  words  Paul  told  the  story  of  his 
father's  sin  and  self-judgment ;  his  abdication  in 
the  flesh ;  what  he  esteemed  the  rights  to  be  of  a 
woman  placed  as  he  had  placed  his  wife  ;  how  care 
fully  he  had  guarded  her  in  those  rights,  and  per 
jured  himself  at  the  last  to  leave  her  free  in  peace 
and  honor  with  her  children.  She  listened,  not 
weeping,  but  with  her  great  eyes  shining  in  her 
pallid  face. 

"  All  that  came  after,"  said  Paul,  taking  her 
cold  hands  in  his  —  "  after  his  last  solemn  recanta 
tion  does  not  touch  the  true  spirit  of  his  sacrifice. 
It  was  finished.  My  father  died  to  us  then  as  he 
meant  to  die.  The  body  remained  —  to  serve  out 
its  time,  as  he  said.  But  his  brain  was  tired.  I 
do  not  think  he  connected  the  past  very  clearly 
with  the  present.  I  think  you  should  forget  what 
has  happened  here.  It  was  a  hideous  net  of  cir 
cumstance  that  did  it." 

"  There  is  no  such  thing  as  circumstance,"  said 
Mrs.  Bogardus  with  loftiness.  Her  face  was  calm 
and  sweet  in  its  exaltation.  "  I  cannot  say  things 
312 


PEACE  TO  THIS   HOUSE 

as  you  can,  but  this  is  what  I  mean.  I  was  the 
wife  of  his  body  —  sworn  flesh  of  his  flesh.  In 
the  flesh  that  made  us  on3  I  denied  him,  and 
caused  his  death.  And  if  I  could  believe  as  1  used 
to  about  punishment,  I  would  lock  myself  in  that 
room,  and  for  every  hour  he  suffered  there,  I 
would  suffer  two.  And  no  one  should  prevent  me, 
or  hasten  the  end.  And  the  feet  of  the  young 
men  that  carried  out  my  husband  who  lied  to  save 
me,  should  wait  there  for  me  who  lied  to  save  my 
self.  All  lies  are  death.  But  what  is  a  made-up 
punishment  to  me  !  I  shall  take  it  as  it  comes  — 
drop  by  drop  —  slowly." 

"  Mother  —  my  mother !  The  fashion  of  this 
world  does  not  last ;  but  one  thing  does.  Is  it  no 
thing  to  you,  mother  ?  " 

"  Have  I  my  son  —  after  all  ?  "  she  said  as  one 
dreaming. 

The  night  lamp  expired  in  smoke  that  tainted 
the  cold  air.  Paul  drew  back  the  curtains  one  by 
one,  and  let  in  the  new-born  day. 

"  '  Peace  to  this    house,'  "  he   said  ;    "  *  not  as 
the  world  giveth,' "  his  thought  concluded. 
313 


M.  B.  BLAKE  &  SONS, 
Circulating  Library, 

27G  E,  57th  St,      Chinas*, 


UCSB  LIBRARY 


Electrotyfed  and  printed  by  H.  O.  Houghton  &•  Co<. 
Cambridge,  Mass.,  U.S.  A. 


t-        S*= 


O 

uJ     60 

^    "5 
o 

JO 
-     O 


